


Argent

by LitheLies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Character Study, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, Head Girl Hermione Granger, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Head Boys & Head Girls, POV Draco Malfoy, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Severus Snape Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 89,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22674547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitheLies/pseuds/LitheLies
Summary: Draco agreed to return to Hogwarts; he didn't agree to play the role of Head Boy.( Dramione / Eighth Year / Post-DH AU / If there's a plot, it's purely by chance / Draco POV )
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 424
Kudos: 362





	1. Chapter 1

**Saturday — August 1st, 1998.**

Today, Draco decided.

Today would be the day he'd fix that clock, for good. All it took was a deft Reducto curse and it'd blown apart. Flecks of wood scattered across the pristine white tiles along with gears and flesh. He stared down the mummified remains of his grandfather's heart.

Relief flooded Draco like a drug.

The clock ticked too loud.

It always had.

He hadn't noticed the clock as a child. Hadn't thought to notice it, as it was such an innocuous relic from his grandfather. Blood seeped through the grout of the tiles like geometric spiderwebs. He traced the shapes with his eyes, empty silver drawn along the red.

"Mister," Tripley said as she popped into existence by his knee. Her great bat-like ears flared with surprise as she took in the splayed mechanism. "Oh no."

"Leave it," Draco said. "I meant to do that."

"But -- "

Draco shot the elf a look, to which she stayed quiet. Obedience was the sparse benefit of his father's eyes and brow. She worried on the spot as if her feet were on fire. He watched as the blood began to dry into the grout, the thud of the clock drawn to an unnatural end.

"Master will  be upset," she said, her hands bunched into knots.

"My father can speak to me if he has an issue with it," Draco raised his wand to banish the fragments of the clock. They hissed and bubbled as they turned white, sparks and bright edges drawn from the latent magic. The clock disappeared into nothing, enchanted heart and all.

Tripley had thick tears down her cheeks, her head dropped.

"Get out, Tripley."

And she did.

She was always the one to appear first at the slightest problem, a spilled drink or a broken quill. Her sense of house pride drove her to perform.

But everyone was on edge, always.

The war had that effect.

The Manor reeked of bodies and of blood, though the elves they had left had worked to clean it in their absence. They went to France for several months during their plea bargain with the Ministry. They agreed to pay several fines and that they would account for their whereabouts. They also agreed to assist in Hogwarts' restorations.

Despite the costs involved, they remained unaffected.

Financially, at least.

Draco's throat tensed as he passed the drawing-room. It was still charred from his aunt's breakdown back in April. She had torn it apart when their prisoners had left. He didn't linger. He was so sick of lingering.

The curtains remained drawn through the entire mansion. It kept the heat out which lightened the load on the elves. They sustained wards with their presence alone, like helpful parasites. They clutched to the magic of the Malfoy name, and in turn, they provided their unique strain of magic.

A scream rang through the Manor, which echoed against white marble. Draco hissed through his teeth as he'd heard his mother scream enough to know it by sound alone.

Apparition through the house was far easier than running so he took a guess on where she would be. She'd not left her personal parlor since they'd arrived back from France last month.

As he expected, she was on her swooped settee in a bundle of her robes. Her hands were tiny clenched fists and her teeth cut a firm line as she thrashed.

He waved a hand and summoned a Calming Draught from their stores downstairs.

It took some maneuvering, but he woke her and worked the potion into her mouth. She buried her face into his neck and sobbed, shapeless words against his neck, apologies. It was a familiar mixture he could repeat on command. She blamed herself for how things had shaped up, but Draco had  been given  much time to think about whose fault it was.

It was his grandfather's fault.

His pureblooded tilt saw him involved with the Dark Lord before the First Wizarding War. He had torn apart the government when they'd elected a Muggleborn. His grandfather had carried on the tradition of pureblood supremacy, all the way to his grave. The very same blood pride that had led them to financial ruin and social isolation.

His father, of course, deepened that trench of self-destruction for the Malfoy family. He sought the Dark Lord's approval in the interest of power. But he'd failed on repeat at simple tasks and ended up in jail.

And when his father hadn't been good enough, Draco fell into line.

So it became his fault, this blood supremacy thing.

But he wouldn't lose himself to the cycle of blame.

This was the best they were going to get; traumatized but alive.

"I thought you were dead," she said, her voice thin.

"I wouldn't leave you." He tucked his chin atop his mother's head. "Never."

"You'll have to leave soon..." Her voice slurred around in her mouth like a lolly. She straddled the line between wine and a Calming Draught on a daily basis. "You have school, dear."

"I don't have to go."

"You do... You do have to go," she cuddled closer, her knees drawn closer. Her head bent down so he couldn't see her cry. But he felt it, the shake in her shoulders and the shiver in her spine. She softened into him once the potion took and he sat with her.

"I can't go back," he said for the hundredth time.

"Oh Draco," she swallowed phlegm, a clumsy sound from a refined woman. "You're very sharp, very clever -- but you must finish... You..." Her voice waned, her eyes drooped. "You must finish your schooling."

Draco didn't have the heart to explain to her that it was a ridiculous request. That school was useless and that even with the best grades in England, no one would want to hire him. He didn't want to pick apart his image for her sake, as she worried enough on his behalf.

"I'll visit if you want."

"Mother," Draco chuckled as the tension broke. "You may if it will make you feel better."

The corners of her lips flickered, a smile she wanted to share stuck behind torn muscles. Much of her subtle grace and private charm had been stolen from her. His father had sought treatment for her from all sorts, but they weren't sure where to begin with her.

When she was asleep in her seat, he took his leave.  It was a short walk to his bedroom from her favored parlor, as it was one of the few rooms that remained unused during the Dark Lord's stay.  She had warded it and disguised the door, with all her most precious belongings crammed inside. Paintings of her parents, her favorite dresses, her jewelry.  She kept her material possessions secret for that year as if it might make it easier to become who she had been before.

Draco had moved his bedroom since they returned to England to a smaller one nearer the Library. A large willow tree obscured the window, but it looked the least like his old bedroom. His parents had taken to a separate room, one each, and he left that for them. It wasn't for him to question or to examine.

If they wanted his input, they'd ask.

His Head Boy pin sat beside his supplies list for Hogwarts.

He picked up the monochrome pin, silver framed with black enamel indentations. He didn't deserve this. He didn't. It was a joke or a mistake or both, and he refused to accept it. He hadn't opened his supplies letter either as he hadn't thought he'd attend. He wanted to leave the place behind, to leave everything -- but he couldn't.

Not after his Sixth year, where he'd failed at a task and suffered his mother's suffering for it.

And now, not after his Seventh year, where he'd tortured students for the amusement of teachers.

He could have pulled punches. He could have worked alongside Dumbledore's Army to resist, but his family was too close to the Dark Lord. If he misstepped, if his loyalty wavered, his parents would be dead. It wasn't as simple as Longbottom whose parents were at St. Mungo's. Or even like the Weasleys, whose father was already a target.

The Dark Lord was in his house, his family was at his mercy.

But there it was again, that cycle of blame.

It was his fault, he decided.

All his fault.

Draco dug his nails into the wood of his dresser, head dipped and shoulders tense.

How did they expect him to return with a fucking Head Boy pin on his chest? 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Monday -- August 3rd, 1998.**

It was a month before school returned and yet people bustled all over Diagon Alley as if it were Christmas. They had been in hiding, he imagined, short on supplies or eager to exist in the world they’d lost. Draco always walked with his head held high, shoulders back.  He'd learned to keep his chest out and to walk with confidence, confidence, always confidence.

And in part, he was grateful that he kept his head high, as it allowed him the foresight to avoid the Weasley mob. They were so loud and bright, as if unaware of how much space they took up. The mother especially was so wide and loud, how she’d shout at her children, no control. Draco hadn’t had his mother yell at him in years, not since before Hogwarts. And yet they rolled like a pack of dogs, one over the other, laughter, slopping.

They were in a rush, wherever they were going.

Potter and Granger stumbled in their midst.

Granger looked quiet, withdrawn, which was strange given how loud she had been in school. But she’d looked like a bird when she’d turned up to the Manor several months ago. Her collarbone remained sharp and her eyes bright.

She wasn't smiling, he noticed.  Perhaps  his aunt carved that part of her away, he couldn’t be sure. Potter was holding hands with the girl Weasley, smiles, laughter as if life had begun for them.

If they noticed him, they hid it well. The wide group vanished into that joke store the Weasley twins owned, though he had heard one of them died. He operated under the assumption people died unless he heard otherwise, it made it easier. If you hoped people had lived, you disappointed on repeat. 

Even as he sat with his mother at this small cafe, he remained straight-backed and proud.

“I hope your father is well enough to come out with us, at least once,” Narcissa clacked her teacup down. A flash of dread crossed her features. She’d never made a sound with her teacup in the past. 

“I’m sure he will,” Draco reached across to soothe her forearm, which was too thin beneath his grasp. She had started eating again at least, but not much. “It’ll  just  take time for him to feel comfortable in public. I’m sure he misses you  dearly.”

Narcissa gave a tight-lipped smile, her fingers dancing against the tabletop.

He didn’t linger in the dark circles beneath her eyes or the way her lips twitched like she’d had a shock sent through her. She covered it most times, with a shift or a smile, but the fragmentation was easy to detect for him. He admired both his parents, in spite of everything. He still admired them.

He reached out to catch her hand, to thumb her knuckles and ease her shakes.

“Thought I saw him.”

Draco fought the urge to duck his chin. He turned, head then torso, as he saw the ragtag trio approach. He’d spent enough years with them to pick their voice by ear alone, and he felt no great relief in his cleverness. He had underestimated the red they wore as scarves and blood, the act of bravery above all else.

Though he failed to see the bravery in a three-on-one approach. Especially given his sick mother was with him, as they worked through her agoraphobia. 

“Expected you to be halfway to Bulgaria — not in Diagon Alley,” Weasley laughed as if it were funny.

“I live to disappoint,” Draco said, a smirk spread across his thin lips.

“You can say that again,” Weasley mumbled though he meant it with his whole chest. 

“Ron,” Granger said, her tone sharp.

“One can live in Bulgaria and still come to Diagon Alley,” Draco’s brow twitched with anticipation. “If one can Apparate — though if I recall, you failed the test, didn’t you Weasley?”

“Actually,” Potter cut in, as Ron made a few sounds of frustration. “I wanted to come over to say thank you.”

Narcissa and Draco wore veiled confusion like it was hereditary.

“ Just, for not calling us out at your house,” Potter gestured to Draco, to then pivot his attention to Narcissa. “And for you, lying about me… About, me being dead. Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. You were very brave.” He smiled clumsy, red nose and ruffled hair. He always looked like he’d stepped off the Quidditch pitch as if he’d never learned any other way to be.

Draco felt his throat click as he watched his mother burst into tears. It wasn’t uncommon, but she usually kept it for when she arrived home. But she broke like a porcelain doll dropped from a window as she landed against Potter.

No one knew what to say, least of all Potter.

“It’s okay, I — uh — ” Potter patted her, again and again, rough hands against fine silks.

Draco’s jaw tensed as he watched Potter pat her mother on the back several times, shy and unsure. He might finish what the Dark Lord started.

When Narcissa drew back, she caught Potter’s cheeks in her palms. She babbled her thanks over and over, to whisper how pleased she was that he was alive, for all that he’d done.

It was too quick and messy to be words that anyone understood, but Potter seemed to follow her thread. He was used to it, being the savior of the wizarding world. He no doubt had people rush to touch or hug him in the months that followed.  The ever-popular Potter, who could never do wrong, who shot sunshine from his fingertips.

Draco stood, to catch his mother’s elbow.

Weasley and Granger remained quiet, a small slice of relief amidst his mother’s frantic words. She stilled and stepped away, to allow Harry his space back. Draco tugged her closer, to tuck her head beneath his chin. She gathered into him, a small work of art in how she folded so small.

The cafe felt suffocating, even as they sat on the small ornate terrace with black iron fences. All the furniture matched, either frosted glass or black iron. It felt the closest to home without being at home, as a nice midway point for his mother. And yet the three of them had stomped over to panic her — then to imply their gratitude meant anything. Draco held back the contempt, his gaze fixed on his mother’s scalp rather than the three of them.

She unwound herself from him to sit, a crimped smile pushed at her cheeks as if she wanted to be anywhere else.

“You gonna pick up work at the Ministry?” Potter asked, unable to take a hint.

“No,” Draco said, his tone long and bored. He rolled his gaze over the three of them, though Granger had the most bags. “I’ll be returning to Hogwarts.”

“They’re letting you back in?” Weasley said, thick disbelief in his tone.

“They’re insisting I return,” Draco smirked as if he were pleased about it.

He watched them pivot, an immovable wall of sweaters and denim as if they had no clue that cotton or silk or even wool. As if they were still eleven, about to trip onto the Hogwarts Express.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Tuesday — September 1st, 1998.**

Draco was on the train in seconds, to secure a carriage on his own. He hadn’t let his parents attend with him, hadn’t wanted them to.  They instead opted for a drawn-out goodbye at their home in the foyer, wide staircases split up into the upper floors. He hugged them both, so tight that he could still smell the mix of their scents, rich perfume, and thick cologne.

But he didn’t want them to come here, not with all the families, the faces. With their thin sentence, which wasn’t a punishment, Draco didn’t trust people to withhold. They might speak of peace and forward-thinking, but people were vindictive and exacting. He didn’t want to turn up to a mob, out for his family’s blood.

It wasn’t much of a choice; his parents refused to let him move on from Hogwarts without a certificate and he had missed the latter half of Seventh year.  The first half hadn’t been much of anything,  not unless he was required to perform Unforgivable Curses on repeat through the rest of his life.

Draco had arrived far earlier than was required, which left dozens of compartments to choose from. 

He walked to the midpoint of the train, given it usually sat closest to the exit at Hogsmeade.

He hadn’t planned this far ahead.

He had thought the train would sling him out of the window or that Azkaban guards would be waiting by the train. He hadn’t expected to be asked to return, or to be given the title of Head Boy. His life hadn’t ever had a point beyond the Dark Lord. Even if he succeeded, he didn’t expect to survive. Death and despair, he could navigate.

This warm spot of optimism — he like he was set to be executed and they'd decided to push it back a few minutes.

Waiting for the blade to drop.

A person didn’t die immediately when decapitated. They had a few seconds, where their gaze would flicker or their face would contort.

The door to his compartment slid open as the cavalcade of Slytherins poured in.

Blaise, Theo, Pansy, Daphne — none had been spared from the return trip to Hogwarts, it seemed. He hadn’t spoken to any of them but they didn’t seem to care. They took to their seats as if it were any other year as if they’d not lived through a nightmare several months ago.

“ — which is why I refused to go with them!”

“You should have gone for the food,” Theo said with a wave of his hand, his elbows set on his knees.

“I’m not going to Italy for food — what food do they even have there?” Pansy scrunched her face, her lips pouted and her gaze lost to the roof.

“It’s Italy Pug, there’s pizza, pasta, all sorts of wine,” Blaise rubbed his forehead, a smile dug into his dark brown skin. It made his teeth flash like starlight as he wrapped an arm around Daphne’s shoulders. She’d been busy with her cat, which had whined the whole way in.

“Lucius,” she cooed as she pried the cat out of the cage.

“I can’t believe you named your cat after my father — ”

“I’ve always named my cats Lucius, don’t make it about your daddy issues,” Daphne cuddled the black cat to her chest. He burrowed into her as if she were a great wide blanket, warm and comfortable. “Yes, I know Lou, he’s very mean.”

Draco rolled his eyes to the door. 

No one would mention last year, though it sat between them unspoken.  Lucius had been the target for countless attacks by the Gryffindors, as pets were the easiest way to get revenge on each other. Draco couldn’t count the number of pets that went missing last year. The Carrows had a hand in most of them, as tasks or as punishment. If you got too many detentions in a row, your pet was confiscated  — 

Draco never had a pet, per se.  Just  an owl, which didn’t stay at Hogwarts any longer than he needed to.

The trip began, with the slow rock of the carriage and the conversation turned to Italy, about food, light things. Draco didn’t weigh-in, he didn’t have anything to add. He was still sure he had gotten away with something, that he wasn’t meant to be here. It was all about to break, he could feel it.

The door slid open, to which the compartment turned.

“Malfoy, you’re needed,” a Hufflepuff girl said. She had blonde hair and big eyes like she was surprised she’d spoken.

“We aren’t even at school yet,” Blaise shot Draco a scandalized look.

“Needed for what?” Draco stood, his brow set.

“The Prefect meeting — “

“They let you stay a Prefect?” Pansy gasped, loud and throaty. “What the fuck, Draco! I got kicked out ‘cause they said they didn’t need Eighth year Prefects.”

“I’m not a Prefect,” Draco dug his pin out of his pocket. “I’m Head Boy.”

The Prefect compartment had once been a place of absolute joy for him.  It was like a dinner cart, designed for people to schmooze and roll between one another, to chat and to socialize, as if their position was a privilege. And it was in, part. They sacrificed their nights several times a week to do patrols and could alter house points. But Draco felt none of that excitement as he stepped inside, his school robes draped over his arm.

He hadn’t had the space to change in his compartment and hadn’t intended to change until they got to school.

And yet, here he was, Head Boy.

Bone tired and dark circles around his eyes, Head Boy, when he was quite sure his badge should read “Dead Boy” given the sprawl of glares.

And Granger, red-faced, red lined robes, brown hair, brown eyes — she’s a slash of warmth in a sea of black.

“You knew you had to come here,” she said, her voice level.

“I assumed the badge was a mistake.”

Granger narrowed her eyes at him through the dim light of the carriage. The curtains were drawn low as if this were some secret meeting.

“Are you going to change?” She asked, her voice clipped.

“What, right in front of you?” He asked, a smirk smeared cheek to cheek. The room broke into thin giggles as she slapped down several pieces of parchment.

She’s still too thin. He could see it in the strain of her neck or in her hands. They were bony and slim, too much like his mother’s. He couldn’t look at them for long, but there wasn’t much else to look at. She had taken to the center of the aisle with her hands  wildly  in the air. She demanded attention, even if he was reluctant to give it.

“Now,” Granger said as if she hadn’t gathered their attention like candy in her greedy little hands. “While you have your elected Head Boy and Head Girl,” she gestured to a Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff beside her. They had the same Head badge that he had, except they had their house colors.  “Headmistress McGonagall thought that given the Eighth year, it would be best to have four Heads. It serves as a balance of power, a show of solidarity. Two Seventh years and two from…” Her voice trailed off as she met his eye.

“It won’t affect much,” she continued. “There’s no Eighth year Prefects, as there’s few left of them anyway. The double Head Pupil role allows representation for each house. This is especially important as they piece the school back together.”

Draco rolled his eyes before he could stop himself, his finger and thumb framed against his cheek.

She noticed. He didn’t have to read her to know she had, with how her hair bristled and how her shoulders squared. She continued to speak about Prefect expectations and rules.

Draco had checked out altogether. He’d slackened back into his booth, long legs sprawled beneath the table as he picked at his cuticles.

“Could you pretend to care at least?”

“Oh, you’re done,” he said with a sneer. He stood, though he stood between him and the exit to his booth.

“Draco,” she said, her voice as sharp as ever as if she expected to break through to him with strength. There was nothing to break through. He was just so tired.

“Hermione,” he said, in a perfect imitation of her tone.

“You  were chosen  as Head Boy, and it comes with responsibilities.”

Draco blinked down at her, lips parted with grim amusement.

“You have to try at least, to work with me.”

“I don’t, actually,” Draco's expression pinched around the corners. “I  was chosen to be Head Boy, I didn’t choose to be Head Boy. Even less, I didn’t choose to come back here, I didn’t choose to be responsible — ”

“But you came back,” Hermione cut over him, her little red face all the redder.

“I came back to finish my education, not play moral pillar in the school,” he gathered himself before he pushed past her. It was too easy to do, she was so small, even with her firm stance and squared posture. He didn’t linger in the flash of fear behind her eyes, in how she processed his size compared to hers. He was a threat in that split second, back in the war, back to the way things were.

But she had forced his hand.

“There’s a reason you  were picked  to be Head Boy,” Hermione cut back, to rush beside him before he left the compartment.

“ Just  because there’s a reason doesn’t mean it’s a good reason,” he said, his voice thin. “Fuck off Granger.”

And she did, though he wished she hadn’t.

He didn’t go back to the compartment he’d been in with the Slytherins, or to a new compartment. Instead, he went all the way to the back of the train, to stand in the last gap between the carriages. The slim space of exposed mechanisms provided a low chatter of sound, over and over.

He fished a cigarette out of a small box, black packaging with black paper, though the tobacco was bright purple. He snapped his fingers to light it, a sneer stuck to his lips.

There’s a reason.

Sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have a different Eighth year fic called Find A Way To Live On, which was very plot-dense and heavy in that way. I added a lot of plot elements and created a narrative much grander than I intended -- so I wanted to try something far more level, with fewer plot twists and OCs. On top of that, I wanted to do a Draco POV to play with his personality, in the hopes I may one day be able to tackle an older!Draco POV not centered around the war and school. But this fic serves as me processing Draco's feelings post-war and the position his family was left in.
> 
> The update schedule will be very sporadic, please let me know how you feel about it! Especially regarding his voice and how he comes across. I will also mention that Draco is kinda detached and a dick so please join me on this wild ride. There will be mentions of non-Dramione occurrences throughout the story, too, so if you don't want to see that, I'll try to put a warning in the chapter but it's a big ol' angst pile. I will also hazard that Draco is an eighteen-year-old boy so uhhhh sometimes things get casually explicit. 
> 
> Also prompted/dedicated to janiiith given they asked if I'd tackle a long-form Draco POV and this happened.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tuesday — September 1st, 1998.**

Draco had never been jealous of cobblestone in his life, but there he stood, stricken with it.

The castle stood unaffected by the war. The arches were mended, the debris was cleared and the last vestige of the damage had been focused down to a single broken statue. It had been piled onto one spot, frozen in place with a small plaque.

Granger, who’d been herding Second years like the good girl she is, stopped her route. She waved them over to the Hufflepuff girl with a Head Girl pin, her face squashed and her hair bright yellow. Not blonde, not white, yellow, as if she had no idea how to care for it. He grimaced as the crowd jostled, left and right, and as they passed the monument. Granger had her hand outstretched and looked as pathetic up close as she had from a distance. His lip curled as she pressed a hand to the curve of the armor.

_For those who died defending the future, May 2nd, 1998._

He didn’t linger to see the names, but dozens were listed. Some familiar in passing, none he cared to mourn right this second. It seemed a little morbid to memorialize their deaths in such a central part of the school, but they’d also decided to cram their daft old headmaster in a great white tomb, so what did Draco know of aesthetics.

“Seems like Granger’s out to summon a boyfriend,” he said without thinking.

She looked at him, torn eyes and red cheeks. Not upset, not as much as he’d expected. She looked furious, framed in thick brown curls. 

Fuck.

Oh well.

It was a joke; he could have said worse.

Blaise and Theo whooped with laughter as they paced past. Pansy and Daphne were in deep discussion with several Seventh year girls, none of which Draco took the time to know. They were familiar but he never really bothered with names. If he had to, he could get away with pet names. Sweetheart, love, whatever name meant that they’d think he liked them. It was easier than names. One smiled and waved at him and he grimaced with teeth. She seemed pleased and he couldn’t place why.

He couldn’t help but glance backward, at the bossy Head Girl who’s slammed herself onto the spot, stuck in front of a memorial.

His focus is on her because how can it not be?

She’s making a spectacle of herself as she stood beside a broken statue. She looked as if she were in front of a gravestone, which in a way he supposed it was. He didn’t hesitate to look back at her, not as the crowd moved. Ginny had moved over to her, as had Longbottom and Lovegood, her happy little replacements for Potter and Weasley. He rolled his eyes and focused ahead, his hands dug deep into his pockets.

He couldn’t swallow the words back, not even if he wanted to.

He would have gone back for her —

Because she’s the other Head of their year, obviously. He can’t be seen to have left her, as then he’d be blamed for not keeping an eye on the Golden Girl of Gryffindor.

It took a painful amount of time for people to seat themselves and to settle. Draco spent the time idle, his attention fixed ahead of him. The Slytherin table was focused on earned loyalty. They didn’t embed people to their circles without careful consideration and due diligence. If you were going to be a shit head, you weren’t included. It was rather straight-forward, even when he had been a First year. He had brought wealth, prestige and knowledge; he was an easy fit.

He didn’t care for those who sat on the outskirts, shy or withdrawn. It wasn’t his place to slot them into the group or to help them form their own groups. The very idea made his skin crawl, of coddling younger students into play dates like he was a condescending parent.

So when the First years were sorted, he didn’t offer more than a nod if they happened to look at him. Even then, when one girl slumped over in tears, he glared.

As if being a Slytherin was something to sob over.

Pathetic, honestly.

“Head Boys and Head Girls,” McGonagall said from the teacher’s table. “I’ll need you to come with me for a moment.”

Draco felt his eyes strain into the back of his head as Pansy pinched his bicep as hard as possible. He hadn’t eaten dinner as he’d lost his appetite from the rock of the train and the shape of the halls. He could sneak into the kitchen later or ask an elf. They loved to serve him as if he might want to sneak them to the Malfoy Manor.

At least six of them had come across from Hogwarts to the Malfoy Manor to make up for the losses they’d sustained through Voldemort.

These were the petty thoughts that flitted between his ears as Granger walked up to McGonagall, up to him, her head high as if she had any reason to be proud. The two others, the Ravenclaw boy and the Hufflepuff girl, they were chatting from their tables to the front of the hall.

McGonagall looked between the four of them with mixed pride and pain.

Draco just wanted to sleep.

“I want to thank you for your patience in these times,” she waved a hand for them to follow her.

“Professor,” Granger said, the fucking swot. She couldn’t just stay quiet for two seconds, could she? “Aren’t we meant to escort our younger students to their dorms?”

“The dorms have been shuffled around,” McGonagall waved a hand. “They’re split based on ages rather than houses.”

“What’s the point of common rooms then,” Draco said, no hesitation. “Or houses at all for the matter.”

“Each house retains their common room and their areas, so to say, but we’re going to integrate the dorms. It’s something Dumbledore considered for years, but it’d have involved a lot of restructuring. Given the school was…” McGonagall trailed off. “It was the best time to enact such a change.”

“So, what, everyone has to run all over the castle to get to their rooms?” Draco kept step with her, though she was determined to escape his presence. 

“Rooms are split, four to a space, with a mix of the houses.” McGonagall smiled as they ascended through the main stairways. “When a student goes through their doorway, they’re transported to their room.”

“What if they want to visit one another?” That was the Hufflepuff girl with the awful blond hair. It was like sulfur, he wanted to yank her into a bathroom and treat her hair — but that was petty, wasn’t it.

“Whoever opens the door decides the room,” McGonagall waved a hand. “But they can only open the door to their own room; so if they want to visit one another, they can. They just need permission.”

Granger looked ready to faint.

“As the four Heads of the school, your dorm will have a door that has access to all other dorms; as you can imagine, that is a very special privilege.”

“What do you mean, ‘your’ dorm?” Draco spat, sick of the lack of details. “Why not send a letter about this, why spring it — ”

“She did send a letter,” Granger said, her voice thin. “But I hadn’t realized we would be sectioned off as part of it.”

They stopped on the fourth floor, the least used floor in the school. Except, of course, for the study hall and the Library that sprawled through most of it. The tumorous nature of the Library necessitated that the floor remain unused, as it needed to expand to include more shelves and study spaces. It had been a small alcove when the school had been established and had since grown through donations, purchases and time.

Not that Draco really gave a shit, but he had a habit of knowing more than he needed. He thrived in that, to spare himself the sensation of being outdone.

(He glared at the back of Granger’s head. The letter comment hadn’t been necessary, had it.)

“Your dorm is a visitors' quarters, we had it arranged during the Triwizard tournament,” McGonagall gave a faint smile. “Though part of the wall has been converted to a Library door, so you may go through there without having to loop all the way around.”

Granger let out a sob.

How much did this girl cry, honestly?

McGonagall said a few things further but it was lost to Draco. He paid her no mind, not as she gestured down the hall, to the windows, words, words, so many insufferable words. He instead focused on the small plaque of minted bronze, impressed into the stone by the door.

_Student Head of Houses_  
_Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger._  
_Avery Flint and Rodger Corner._

Draco stared at the names as if they’d shift. Perhaps Blaise was meant to be the Head Boy or Theo. Anyone except for him.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” That’s Avery, if Draco had to guess. Her, with her yellow hair, yellow robes, yellow teeth — as if yellow is a point of pride to her core.

“Sod off,” Draco said, his head tilted towards their dorm.

He pushed into the dorm with his head high and his throat tight. He was used to the dungeons, he was used to the shadows and the deep, rich darks of the space below. But instead, he was lofted halfway to the North tower, vaulted up into the sky like a pyre on a mountainside. The entrance space was a small lounge with several couches in front of a dead fireplace. To the right was a kitchen area. An exposed pantry laid against the wall alongside an icebox. A four-person table sat nearby as if they’d ever had a reason to eat in here.

The doors; great.

Straight ahead was a tall black door with a vault-style dial set in the middle. It had room numbers and years carved along with finely carved student names. No matter how far he spun, the names continued to change beyond reason. 

“It’s the students,” Granger said behind him, her voice weak. She had her gaze fixed on the small stone archway to the right.

“I know,” he paused on Blaise’s name, which was aligned with Neville Longbottom and Michael Corner. He swung the door open and stuck his head through, to which he heard the boys scream.

Draco cackled through the curse words before Granger rushed over to slam the door, her hands rough against his chest. “Don’t abuse it!”

“Abuse it?” Draco echoed, confusion stretched across his face. “I wanted to say hello to my dear friend Blaise.”

Granger kept her back pressed to the wide black door, her hands clasped over the dial.

“I’m surprised you didn’t launch yourself straight for the Library,” Draco said, his voice idle. “Figured you’d at least have to change your knickers — “

Through sheer determination, he didn’t flinch. Not as he saw her face contort or her hand sail for him. She slapped him, hard and decisive, and he sneered through it. She looked more surprised than him as she remained against the door, as if she were afraid of him.

As if she hadn’t been the one to strike first.

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Draco said, his hand pressed against his cheek. His jaw tensed against the pain, a flicker of muscles as he watched.

“Invade privacy,” Granger flexed her brow upward, her teeth grit. “Abuse the privilege.”

“Merlin,” Draco exhaled between his teeth. He rocked back and away from the door, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “So much for having a reason to be here.”

He didn’t stop, not as she blubbered through something like an apology. He didn’t want or need it, he hadn’t asked for it. She had ruined his fun. He had no reason to peek into peoples rooms and he wasn’t about to dedicate himself to patrols. They’d have to reassign the role or move him or something.

The urge to explore the other four doors was lost on him.

He made a beeline out of the room and down the hall to the exposed balcony.

The one upside of this room reassignment.

He used to come to this balcony during his Sixth year quite a lot. He came here in his Fourth and Fifth years too, but he’d come here to sneak a few kisses with Pansy or whichever girl he’d scooped up to piss off Pansy. He’d come here to smoke with Blaise and Theo between classes, sometimes with Flint or Montague. He hid here once from Goyle and Crabbe who he’d tricked into kissing one another in a game of truth or dare.

Sixth year — he had come here, for reasons he didn’t linger in.

He never did it.

Jumped, that is.

But he considered it. It’s worthwhile to consider the shape of things, even if you don’t ever think you’ll do it. But he couldn’t have done it Sixth year, not if he wanted to protect his parents or continue their legacy. Neither seemed to be in mortal peril anymore, given that his parents were safe and his legacy was ruined for him.

But it was dark and cold up here, and he enjoyed that more than anything else.

The warm, small space he’d been crammed into, elbow to elbow with Granger and two insufferable swots. He didn’t speak with Rodger, but he must be insufferable to have been settled with the Head Boy pin.

Draco took a drag of his cigarette, hands shaking and his shoulders hunched.

He wasn’t going to do anything drastic.

He just needed to be out of that space.

He needed the cigarette.

“I’m sorry.”

He should have jumped.

Draco angled himself to glare at Hermione out of the corner of his eye. His hand hovered by the cigarette as he took a deep drag, his eyes narrowed through the chilly evening air.

“Are you smoking?”

“No,” he exhaled smoke into her face. She had enough sense to bat it away with a small gust. He watched her as if he expected her to yell or to shout or to snatch the cigarette away from him to stomp it out. But she didn’t do any of that. She just stood, back-lit by the corridor of warm orange candlelight.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said, her expression dubious.

“Are you going to tattle on me?” Draco loosed a half-there snicker.

Hermione considered him and the question in equal measure, her weight shifted to one leg. “I’ve never smoked,” she said, her tone idle. “What’s it like?”

“Tastes like shit,” Draco narrowed his eyes at her.

“Why do it?”

His lips twitched as he almost continued his answer, but he caught the tail of it with his tongue. He clamped his teeth tight and sucked another breath, though he took the care to exhale it upward rather than at her. She didn’t take his silence as an insult. Rather, she stepped closer, her gaze intent up at him through the moonlight.

He didn’t expect her hand to extend out to him like she wanted to shake his hand.

“May I try it?”

“No,” Draco spat, a cruel laugh spiked out of him.

“Why not?” Granger didn’t falter back, her hand stuck out at him, her jaw set.

Draco exhaled through his nose and stared down at the half-finished roll. If she were to stamp it out or to throw it, he wouldn’t care, really. It wasn’t as if he was hurting on money, he could afford a new pack. But it was more the concept of sharing a cigarette with Hermione Fucking Granger, Head Girl and Golden Girl, bushy-haired and the definition of a swot. Morbid curiosity won over pride as he angled it towards her.

And she took it, as she tried to hold it between her index finger and thumb like a dirty tissue.

The comedy widened as she brought it to her lips, which he’d never considered for more than a few seconds. He’d glare at her as she spoke too loud or mouthed her stupid spells with theatrical enunciation, but never like this. Not wrapped around the paper butt, a confused little ‘o’ shape as she looked to him for advice. Not as she hollowed her cheeks and drew a breath, her eyes watered and her lashes fluttered.

And she spat.

The moment shattered as she broke into a hacking cough, tears down her cheeks and her face bright red.

“That is foul!”

He laughed, ugly and beside himself. He gritted his teeth as he tried to catch his breath, her tongue ticked against her teeth, around her lips, anxious energy bounced from her feet to her hair. She didn’t stop the theatrics until she summoned a glass of water to spit over the balcony.

“It’s not that bad,” Draco said, his voice idle. He drew a new cigarette from the pack as his old one had been stamped onto the stonework.

She hung over the low stone wall, her hands grasped to the edge. Her fingers dug into the stone and her hair folded around her head. He wondered if he could flip her, to watch her plummet to the darkness below. But she pushed back to stare at him, red face, red eyes, spit-covered lips, and wet cheeks.

“Merlin Granger — ”

“Foul,” she repeated, her voice croaky.

“Yeah, it’s a cigarette, what did you expect?” He squinted at her as he took a drag. He mock-coughed before he laughed again, his hip rested against the stonework wall.

“Look,” Granger said, her voice dry. “I came out to apologize for the door, I — you were chosen for a reason, I don’t mean to question your position.”

“What position is that?” Draco asked between drags, not sure if she realized how she’d come apart from one mouthful of smoke.

“Head Boy,” she said, her voice heavy with intent.

“Ah yes,” Draco swirled his cigarette as if he had a fine glass of fire whiskey. “Head Boy, role model to the school, protector of the youth.” Another long drag and exhale for effect. “I hope to lead them to a — uh, brighter future,” he trailed off to lick his lips apart.

“You want to get in trouble,” Granger said, her voice suspicious.

“Why would I want to get in trouble?” Draco dropped his head a fraction so they were closer to eye level. She was tiny, something he often forgot. She often had a massive bag, or she was seated. He rarely stood near her for more than a few seconds at a time, but she was still tiny. Bird-like, he’d noticed, thin wrists, thin neck, just thin all over.

“Because,” Granger said, with the same realization she’d use in a class discussion. “You don’t know how else to be.”

Draco felt his throat tense and he wanted to punch himself for it.

“But I won’t help you get in trouble, I’m not going to babysit you or make sure you do as you’re supposed to. I have better things to be doing.” And she turned as if she’d solved him like a puzzle box.

Draco remained on the balcony beneath the stars as midnight closed in. The hallways remained lit but they dimmed enough for shadows to emerge. He watched the Great Lake from his vantage point, towards the Forbidden Forest. The sprawl of water and woods gave the illusion of isolation but he didn’t need any of that to feel alone. It was simply how it was to be him, shadowed between his passing moments with others.

This was easier; the depths of the shadows.

By one o’clock he’d returned to the shared dormitory. He checked the doors in their common area, the shabby one that led into the Library, then one for brooms and cauldrons. The last two doors were inset to the wall around a curved corridor. He took a chance and landed in the boys’ room, to which he thanked his luck. The last thing he wanted to do was to slide into Granger’s dormitory after hours and have her make up some elaborate five-point reason about why he’d found her.

At least he’d not see her outside of classes; she’d be in the Library. He would stay by the Quidditch pitch or sneak off to Hogsmeade. Seventh years were allowed to go whenever they pleased, so he imagined the same courtesy was extended to Eighth years. The room he had with Rodger was plain, with four beds total. Rodger had erected a screen around his side like the most passive-aggressive roommate that Draco had ever seen, but — whatever.

Fuck him.

Draco didn’t spare the boy a second glance, not as he augmented his own separator from a spare trunk. He tore it apart and erected a black latticed frame and strung the spare curtains up over the spaces. While Rodger had slammed up some ugly slats of wood, Draco took the time to make it look nice.

He heard the mutter about the sound and sent a stunning spell at the boy. He didn’t even think about it, didn’t give a fuck. He was tired and the boy had started it. Draco didn’t have the time or patience for passive-aggression, not when he could fulfill the role of aggressive-aggression. Once he was pleased with his separator he lifted the spell. Rodger laid still, whether he’d not even woken up in the first place or he’d thought better than to speak up.

Draco was so embedded in his rage that he forgot about his insomnia.

And so he laid there, trapped between awake and asleep.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — September 2nd, 1998.**

But he was still until it was five o’clock, when he climbed out of bed and made his way to the attached bathroom. There was no bathroom in the common area, not that he knew of, but each dorm had it’s own bathroom so it wasn’t some great loss. He brushed his teeth and showered, doing his best impression of being functional. By six o’clock, he’d dragged on the skeleton of his personal Quidditch gear. Not the Slytherin colors with the cream slacks and the green shirt; black top, black bottoms with dark grey for any accent. 

His broom had been propped in the closet, the twigs all out of shape from transit.

“Good morning,” Hermione said from the small table. The three empty seats beside her made her look pathetic and lonely.

He didn’t linger, not as she repeated his name. He cleared the twigs and reshaped them. It was an aesthetic thing as much a precision thing. He didn’t want to go out onto the field with them out of shape, as it’d get worse with each lap. He took pride in what he owned and that which he was responsible for.

It was why he kept both his belongings and his responsibilities limited.

He was all or nothing; life or death.

Something struck the back of his head. A small was of parchment with nothing written on it except ‘ _turn around_ ’.

He tossed the ball into the air as it burst into flames then into nothing. He scrubbed his face with his hand as he stood, not to look at her nor to pay her any mind. He hoisted his broom onto his shoulder. He could fly from the balcony if he really wanted to, but the school had anti-flight barriers. He didn’t want to have his broom confiscated, or worse, leap off the tower and plummet.

By the second-floor staircase, he saw her, books in her arms and her face red.

“I need to go see Hagrid,” she spluttered between breaths. “I thought we could walk together.”

“Did you,” Draco said, his voice idle.

“You aren’t wearing your Head Boy pin.”

“I’m not.”

“Why not?”

Draco shrugged, his bottom lip pushed out as they landed on the ground floor. He had hoped in an early trip to the Quidditch pitch he’d be able to avoid her. She had summoned him to the Prefect carriage, she had stalked him to the balcony. He didn’t want to know how far she’d follow him as if he were her latest cause to champion. He could see it in how her jaw was set and how she’d stare at him, her eyes wide and her mouth furrowed.

She followed in step with him, her arms laden with books. She could have put them into her bag, enchanted them to be light, but she didn’t. She was so stubborn about the stupidest things. He didn’t turn to watch her walk to Hagrid’s hut but he noticed her absence. The heavy breathing, the stern attention, the way she’d rush a little more just to catch the corner of his eye.

The pieces clicked together in his mind.

She didn’t trust him.

Which made sense. He didn’t blame her distrust. He had been a close ally to the Dark Lord if all you knew was his family name. He hadn’t done anything of note during the war except cry and suffer on the floor to innumerable torture techniques, but he’d tortured others. She was just curious about him, about whether he’d snap and begin to torture the new children at Hogwarts.

As if her presence might save them if that was his intent.

So there was a reason he was Head Boy; kindling for sadistic tendencies, or a method of cataloging his movements. Patrols, the separate dorm…

Draco arrived at the Quidditch pitch, his broom strained against his palm. He hadn’t been here since his Fifth year, back when he still had a shred of hope about his future as a Quidditch star. He didn’t care what position he played, though he was a rubbish Beater. He was lean and slim with more interest in maneuvering his broom than beating others with Bludgers. He took his stance and shot into the air, a genuine smile on his lips for the first time in months. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Suggestive content re: Draco and Astoria.

**Friday — September 4th, 1998.**

“Why would you need your own kitchen?” Blaise had his hands behind his head as he stretched his back out. They’d played a friendly match against a group of Ravenclaws, as Quidditch didn’t start until November. “Making Pixie Pops?”

“Yes, Blaise, I’m making drugs in my Head Boy quarters,” Draco couldn’t help but snort.

“They aren’t that hard to make,” Blaise trailed off, his hand wavered in the air.

“If I wanted drugs, I would buy drugs,” Draco leaned back against the plush emerald settee, his head rolled back against the curve of it. “It’s more, oh, your patrol ran late, have some soup.”

“But then you have to cook your own food,” Pansy sneered as if it were a personal offense. “As if I want to cook. Do I look like I cook? No.”

“You don’t live there Pans,” Draco drawled as he stretched.

“But if I did, is my point,” Pansy jabbed her wand in his direction, which spurted some glitter nail polish at him. It disappeared as it closed in on his slacks, whether by her magic or his anti-dirt woven cloth.

“You would have hated the orientation sessions,” Draco hummed as he stared at the ceiling.

The students had been given the first half-week off from classes to learn the new routes between classes. It also provided a chance for students to reconsider or to attend the second round of arrivals, given that some parents wanted to see the safe arrival of students before they sent their own children. Another two dozen had arrived since the first lot arrived Tuesday. Draco had escorted them with a massive fake smile and endured their questions.

If anything, he’d been a model student.

Granger hadn’t tried to speak with him since Wednesday, which was lovely. He didn’t like how she stared at him like she wanted to run her fingers down his chest and split him open to find his index. She had a way about her, curiosity not metered by ethics. She’d always been that way, desperate for the answer that she wanted to see.

Hence his trip to the dungeons this afternoon, to spend time with his friends.

What few he had left.

Daphne and Pansy were on the floor with nail polish and their hair in curls. They were going to Hogsmeade to meet some boys who’d graduated several years ago and Draco can’t even bring himself to tell them off. Pansy might twist that into an elaborate narrative about his jealousy and she was like a tick. She would burrow beneath his skin and exhaust him until she got what she wanted from him, his very lifeblood. He loved her, in what fragmented way he loved his friends.

Astoria was with them, between them, her little face peppered with a make-up look than neither girl was brave enough to try first.

It was an awful look but he wouldn’t say it to her. She was too sweet for that sort of venom. Her brows were like black lines drawn with ink and her lipstick was a vibrant shade of purple. But she smiled and twisted as if she weren’t trying to be pretty but trying very hard not to try. He shifted his attention to the thick glass windows where a pack of merpeople flashed past.

“Are they still mad?”

“About the poison in their home?” Daphne said, her voice dry. “A little.”

“It wasn’t our fault,” Draco pushed up from the couch, his broom lax in his grip.

“Yeah, well, you try telling them that, they’re all,” Daphne mimicked a dolphin before she let out an ugly snort. “Are they even words, honestly.”

The mermaids flashed past again, their nails scraped against the glass. It reformed, as the glass was charmed to be resistant to their attacks. But they had never been pleasant to the Slytherin students and that vendetta had deepened last year with the Carrows. Draco grabbed his sleek leather satchel and waited for Pansy and Daphne to gather their shoes. They rushed to their door, one after the other.

“The mixed-house dorm thing is weird, isn’t it.” Blaise watched Draco rather than the door, his arms crossed. He had changed into casual attire, a black turtleneck and black slacks. His tastes lined up with Draco’s and they could have shared wardrobes, were that not a tragic thing to do.

“This school is weird,” Draco dismissed as he craned his neck from side to side. An incredible crack sounded with each movement. “Next they’ll be setting up pairs, matching Muggleborns and purebloods, just watch.”

“Oh no, you’ll have to save me Draco,” Astoria laughed like wind chimes, her hand fluttered by her mouth.

Draco flexed a half-there smile at her, a pity smile, but she lapped it up. He didn’t look at her again, not for any specific reason except that he felt the thread of soothed ego that girls like her brought with them. They coaxed him into half-there intimacy and pretended to be flighty and fun until they got a bad grade then sobbed about it. Or they’d make him take them on ridiculous dates to innocuous places and it snowballed.

Worst is when they got close enough to him that they noticed the emptiness that rested in his chest. It was a wide space of apathy, a space he was clever enough to hide. He didn’t linger in it, didn’t wallow. Achievements and praise all fell into the pit, hand over fist, and he’d accepted that long ago. There was no way around it. He accepted he was broken. It wasn’t his issue to coddle girls, to explain his broken edges and his black pit.

It was their fault if they fell into him.

Daphne and Pansy reappeared their bits and bobs all in place. Pansy had a modest cardigan on that would be popped open the second they got onto the grounds. He didn’t have to see it to picture the curve of her chest or the shape of her thighs as they met her arse. He’d handled it enough to paint a picture but all he saw now was the dark-rimmed eyes and her upturned nose. Her gaze narrowed she dared him to beg her to stay. As if they had something to salvage.

But she had the same black pit as him; they didn’t work.

“Aren’t you going to tell me I’m cute.” Pansy flourished a hand at herself, her fingers wiggled at her face.

“Oh, were you trying to be cute?” Draco’s lips twitched apart.

“You’re the one staring at my arse, Malfoy,” she sang as she skipped up the steps.

“There’s just so much of it — “

He ducked as she shot a stinging jinx back at him. She’d always been a shit duelist.

Astoria bounced along with them, as Daphne rushed after Pansy. Draco stopped, his broom held aside as he watched Astoria like a puppy he didn’t know the owner of.

“I’m walking with you,” she said, a tip to her head as she watched his reaction.

“Afraid I’ll get lost?”

“Oh, I hope we get lost.”

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

Pansy and Daphne had split as they reached the ground floor. They had their own plans for the evening and Draco had no interest. But he wanted to see them as far as he could without leaving the castle. They refused to let him trail them across the grounds, but he watched from the Great Hall exit as they disappeared into the trail to Hogsmeade.

Astoria — well.

Draco licked his lips apart as he climbed the last flight of stairs.

Astoria was persistent. The worst part of it was how she acted as if she were subtle as she crowded closer to him and brushed her hair over her shoulder on repeat. She had removed the makeup before they’d left the dorm but the purple lipstick remained in the corners of her lips. At least until he’d licked it away between kisses, pressed against an alcove on the way back down to the Slytherin dorms. In his defense, she had grabbed his robes and shoved him into the wall.

And he’d allowed it because he was curious.

He thought she might have something to her, with all her sweetness and softness. 

She’d wanted this since Sixth year, she whispered. I’ve always fancied you.

Really, he said with enough softness that it might sound sweet rather than bored.

She sucked marks onto his collarbone and tongued his mouth as if her life depended on it. But she didn’t seem engaged with him, or him with her. It wasn’t her first time, or his, he didn’t need to ask, she’d told him, over and over, begged him to get it over with, an attempt at emotional detachment, distant moans, something warm, something hot.

But he didn’t want her enough to put in the effort it’d take to get his cock out — a fact he half-laughed at as he climbed the stairs.

And so they kissed and that was fine.

Just, fine.

Maybe he was spoiled.

No, he was definitely was spoiled. Not in a material sense, though he could afford any luxury imaginable. But he had been spoiled with sharpened features and silver eyes. He’d grown tall, though not lanky. He worked for the rest, between Quidditch and basic drills as designed by his private Quidditch coach as a child. He was clever with his food and dedicated in his grooming, and it amounted to enough charm to find comfort with girls without active effort in the moment. His existence by nature was a trap for the black gap in his chest where love went to die.

His mother had complained about his father, about how half the girls in their year were after him. She’d warned Draco that the same would happen to him, and he’d laughed. And then it did and he —

It wasn’t quite as he imagined it.

He thought he’d enjoy it more, but he didn’t.

Not that he didn’t enjoy the physical aspect on some base level, but it had always felt rather like taking care of himself but messier with Pansy. The war sapped any great emotions from him, joy or grief, he was numb. Numb to his core, on a path because it seemed like the thing to do. And girls either steered clear of him these past few days or they faced their mortality and chased him like he was a silver Snitch. Astoria was the boldest yet, but he’d noticed several Slytherin girls, Sixth and Seventh years, who’d slant their shoulders and twist their torsos, and it felt so mundane.

As if they expected him to slide over to them, to notice them out of the dozen or so other girls much like them. That he’d tell them out of all the pretty girls, she was the prettiest and he’d throw her onto his lap and shag her through multiple orgasms and they’d pop out a few kids. The timeline in his projected future ran shorter the more he thought on it, which was perhaps a disservice to the girls. Maybe they wanted something else from him; dresses, jewelry, wine, all the trappings of wealth they glimpsed of his family when they’d been in the social pages.

Or they had a narrative for themselves, where they would be The One to save him.

He was broken, he knew that already. He didn’t have to be told twice. He wasn’t a regular boy with a regular life. He was the wealthy son of a known criminal. The girls who were after him weren’t really after him. He was clever enough to pick that up. They didn’t see the black gap in his chest, the way he’d thinned and sharpened through the war. They saw his name, his wealth, and a sliver of the danger they wanted to impale themselves on.

And that wasn’t exciting.

It was morbid.

He slumped into the Head Dorms, Granger had strewn her things around the lounge. She was always surrounded by more books than friends. As if that wasn’t her life summarized. His gaze dragged over a large bronze clock that hung above the fireplace and ticked as louder than he liked.

“Did you hex Rodgers?”

“No.” _It was technically a spell._

“What happened?”

Draco made a beeline for his bedroom, where Rodgers had decorated his erected walls with banners and a glittering ward. He could see where the edges met the floor in tiny writing, runes, and sigils against Dark Arts.

Overkill, honestly. Half the wards would be nulled by goblin silver and the rest could be disenchanted. He would have picked apart the wards one by one, but he didn’t want to have Rodgers tattle to Granger again. So he left them in place with the pleasant knowledge that he could crack them open for dramatic effect, should Rodgers necessitate it.

He’d left his broom in the dorm outside. He’d not bothered to toss it into the closet. He changed into his pajamas and slumped. He laid for several hours before he willed himself to go shower, as he began to feel the itch of Quidditch along his muscles. He thumbed purple from the corner of his mouth as he passed the mirror. He was sure he was meant to feel something, regret perhaps, or amusement. 

Pride.

Something.

But he didn’t.

He just felt tired.

Astoria had made the first move and that’s how they wound up making out an abandoned classroom on the Second floor. One that he knew was abandoned because they’d torn out most of the desks and affixed cursed manacles to the floor. He wasn’t surprised when he saw them still there in the dark, the crimes of last year lingered in the sparse architecture. They’d get the manacles out eventually, but there was no rush. They had plenty of classrooms.

It was as easy as a closed door to move on and pretend this darkness wasn’t here.

Which made it perfect for Astoria and Draco.

His expression flickered as he thought about it. He had wanted her, but not enough. She’d thrown herself at him and he’d withdrawn. He was Draco Malfoy, the pretty rich boy with a Dark Mark and blood on his hands. He was either lucky to have her or taking advantage of her. There was no benefit it in. And if he rejected her altogether without even a kiss, then she might whine about him, say that she wasn’t pretty enough or that he was gay.

He wasn’t gay, though he’d batted the idea around for a brief stint between Pansy and Sixth year.

But it wasn’t that, or he’d just shag Theo.

Draco wasn’t quite sure he knew how to say ‘no’ without compromise anymore. It always ended up in an argument or confusion. And when it was something so innocuous, why not just try, see if he could stir something close to comfort from the brittle cockles of his heart. But it hadn’t and now he had to see her eyes crack open and tears plummet. Or maybe she’d felt it too, that void beneath his flesh. Maybe it was for the best, she’d be over him.

He pressed his forehead to the tiles of the bathroom. His fingers trailed along the jagged scar that ran across his chest.

The regret seeped through him now, but it was too late for that.

At least they hadn’t fucked.

He thought about soft lips wrapped around cigarette butts as he let his hand drop lower, but he didn't have the fortitude to do much about it. He went soft in the hot water, his forehead against the tiled wall. The private bathroom was the smallest joy in an otherwise joyless arrangement.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — September 9th, 1998.**

Classes kicked off, for which Draco was grateful.

It was easy at first, given he had revised the classwork more than a dozen times since he’d collected the books. The Eighth year course was much the same as the Seventh year with few changes outside of Defense Against the Dark Arts being reinstated. But he noticed Granger in each of his classes, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Charms, Transfiguration, always on the edge of his vision whether by design or by cruel irony.

She didn’t speak to him and he didn’t seek her out.

A pattern that was ruptured by Potions. In all other classes, he had Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Pansy — at least one of them to partner with and to snicker with. And the classes that he didn’t have them, there was no partnered work.

Draco considered how hard it would be to kill Snape.

He felt a sharp stab behind his eyes, as Snape glared from the front of the room.

He smirked, a tart pinch to his expression before his face fell.

They had to make a common cold cure to assist with Hospital Wing. The stores had been depleted during the war, so each set of pairs were split between preparation and monitoring. No one had wanted to work with Draco, which suited him. But then Granger split from her pair of three and he wanted to stick his head into one of the jars full of formaldehyde.

Tuesday’s double Potions class had been pure theory and expectations.

Today was the physical task.

He considered the jars for which would be the easiest to get his head into when Granger waved a hand in his face.

“Draco, may you cut the lemongrass, please.”

Draco maintained cool nonchalance over his features as he turned back to his work.

“It’s our patrol night tonight,” Granger pressed on as she stirred the cauldron. “And I know you don’t want to do patrols, don’t argue with me on this, it isn’t for very long, and it will be very simple, you know, you’ve done patrols — “

“Granger.”

“Which I don’t really know how you were last year,” she met his eye, uncertain warmth behind them as she tried to read him.

“Granger,” he repeated as he snatched her wrist. “You’ve over-stirred it.”

He watched the slim line of her throat tense as she turned her attention back to the cauldron. It was a pleasant shape for something so often obscured by her hair. She had her hair up in a messy knot as if she’d gathered it with her fingers. He wished she’d braid it or something; even he knew how to braid.

“Add some birch sap, and — honey, two tablespoons, to thicken it back up,” he exhaled. “A little water too, to make up for the evaporation. Purified, obviously.”

She did as she was told and he tried not to smile at that. She didn’t even question him, which he expected. She was so eager to obey he had to bite his cheek. It was worse when she looked at him as if to check her work by his expression.

“Very good,” he said, unable to stamp out his amusement.

“Patrols,” she repeated with heat in her cheeks. “You have to come. Come with.”

“I’ll come if you do,” he shrugged as if he’d not meant it and she lost the ladle into the cauldron.

He was wrong. It was worse when all he could see was the third of her face from his angle as she worked, lips parted and her eyes wide. She mumbled things to herself, a spell perhaps, and he allowed her the peace. He doubted she even realized how frazzled she’d become and he didn’t want to tease that out of her. She was like an iron poker ready to be yanked from a fireplace, about to brand whoever crossed her.

High-strung.

That was the phrase he was after as he continued to cut his ingredients into their correct proportions.

“I imagine Weasley and Potter will visit you in Hogsmeade often,” he said, idle.

“Oh, yes,” Granger smiled as she stirred, though he could see how her lips wrapped around silent numbers. At least she was being mindful. They couldn’t retrieve the potion on repeat.

“I always thought you and Potter were together,” he said, his tone absent. “But he’s with the Weasley girl, Ginny.”

“I’m dating Ron.”

Draco laughed before he could help it. He chased the edge of it to bring it back in, sharp edges of his smile wrapped around the nasty sound. He pushed it deep down into his chest as Snape brushed past. He gave a solemn nod at their potion and Draco could see Granger unravel.

Not all the way, but a little.

Granger continued to trace the recipe with her finger. She had it memorized, but it gave her something to do with her hands. She’d always been the type to fidget with quills or with books. She always had something in her hands or against her lips. She had a thing for sugar quills, which had amused him at great length their Fourth year between Moody’s miserable classes.

His gaze snapped to her eyes as she spoke, annoyed.

“What?” He said, his tone sharp.

“Aren’t you going to make fun of me for it?”

“Why would I care?” Draco stared at her as if she’d grown an extra head. “You’re clearly already miserable if you’re entrusting yourself with that twit. It’d be like going to the amputee ward to cackle at the legless folks there.”

Hermione dropped the ladle into the potion again.

Draco resumed his dicing of spring onions. The cold cure mixed with cooking in some ways, which amused him. He’d learned to cook through his childhood, more out of an appreciation for the art than for the necessity of it. He never had to make his own food, but his parents wanted him prepared in case he should ever have a need to. He could make several types of pasta and simple salads with ease. There were a few more ornate dishes for the specific purpose of showing off, coq au vin for something light or bœuf bourguignon if he could source high enough quality beef.

Because what good is anything if you can’t rub it in someone’s face?

“He’s not a git,” Hermione had fished out the ladle with her wand and cleaned it, much to Snape’s passing chagrin.

“Sorry, absolute moron — is that better?”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

Draco slapped down the knife. “Why do you care what I think about you and him dating?”

“You had enough of an opinion to think I was dating Harry — ”

“I said I mistook your friendship for a relationship,” Draco reached across to slide the spring onions in. He was inches from her, as she hadn’t much space between the cauldron and the jars of preserved creatures. He lingered in her space for the mere fact that he could, the warmth of her brown eyes was brighter in the light of the cauldron.

“Why did you ask in the first place? If they would visit?”

Draco dragged his gaze across her, his brows angled as he returned her space to her. “No reason.” He smirked as he picked up a small vial.

A non-answer was the worst thing to offer her and he reveled in that frustration. She was pathetic and it was made worse by how blind she was. Maybe that said something about him, how he drew amusement from her jagged edges and the way she struck with no finesse. She never had any, socially speaking. Granger was like a mallet at her most precise, even with her intelligence. She lacked the observation skills that came with silence.

She always had to answer, even if she showed her hand. And she expected the same transparency in kind. He didn’t have to be a genius to see how she tensed when he came close to her, or how she’d lingered on the balcony. But then again, he wasn’t stupid enough to dig his fangs into something like that. She was stupid, he decided. She had to be, for how she chewed on her fingers and licked the brown sugar from her fingertips when she dropped a pinch of it.

She cleaned them in the sink though she had a wand. He let her go, not eager to argue with her over something so mundane.

Space allowed him the chance to drop a pinch of salt. The brown sugar was for a whole other recipe. She hadn’t even realized she’d made a mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wednesday — September 9th, 1998.**

“Are you enjoying classes?”

Draco made a face, noncommittal purse to his lips matched with a shrug.

“Okay, well,” Granger smiled with too much warmth. “Any class in particular you’re enjoying?”

Draco shook his head, his hands dug into his robe pockets.

Granger looked at the ground ahead of them. Her lips parted with a loud pop but she didn’t speak. She seemed to think better of it, for once in her life, and went quiet.

“Potions,” Draco said, a thin edge to his voice.

She waited for the punchline, her eyes quick in their sockets as she tried to preempt the insult.

And he left it at that, left her to suffer. It was more amusing that way, to watch her face heat up. She thrived in the concrete and in answers. She hated elusive answers. There was no way to be right if there was nothing to work with. And so that was what he would give her each week they had to patrol together.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — September 16th, 1998.**

“Please, don’t walk so quick.”

Draco debated a swifter pace but decided against it.

Granger appeared by his side, red in her cheeks and in her eyes. Her eyes were brown of course, a fact he had learned in his drawing-room as he watched the veins pop around the toffee brown warmth, when they had become all red with blood, but they’re red in a different way. He won’t ask why she had rubbed-red eyes or a puff to her face. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t.

Her throat clicked in a loud, breathy way and he tensed. He expected her to speak, to ask him something or to yell at him, or both, but she doesn’t. Instead she bit down and scrunched, her short legs in rapid clip beside him. She had her gaze fixed ahead of them, as if she expected someone or something to jump out. But this was the dungeons and he had a sense of them. People tended to linger closer to the kitchens or by the Hufflepuff dorms.

She rubbed her face with her sleeve.

He rolled his eyes.

She watched the floor, her mouth strained and small. He hadn’t been with her since Potions — they’d split apart, as they weren’t friends, they weren’t anything, as if they had a reason to be around one another except for patrols or the passing breeze in their dorm. But something had happened between Potions and patrols, and he… He was afraid, in truth. He couldn’t pick why, but she must have explored the school.

The Library was in disarray with half the books torn or shredded. Or perhaps she was crying over the trophy room which had been blown to pieces. Or the Muggle Studies supplies which had also been torn apart. The school had been slapped back together but not all at once. It would take time to heal the wounds. There was any number of things to cry about in this miserable place and he refused to pick at her. It would be too easy and…

He’s afraid it would be his fault and he didn’t think he could lie to her. He refused to. If it was something he’d been tasked to do, then he’d admit it because he doesn’t care what she thinks. But they had an hour of patrols twice a week, at a minimum, and he cared enough to maintain peace for his own sake.

She sniffled.

He let her.

She tried to keep quiet. She didn’t want him to notice. If she wanted to speak about it, she would. So instead he let her sob and fuss and shiver.

He’s afraid she’ll break if he asked her out loud what was wrong.

She didn’t stop on the Fourth floor, rather, she rushed towards the Seventh floor. He let her go and didn’t hesitate to watch her.

She would have said if she wanted him to know.

Draco had expected her to bother him through their patrols. Especially now, with tears down her face and no words. He expected her to babble and complain and ask questions but all he was left with was the echo of her sniffles. But their patrols were grim and silent as they walked beside one another like they were on the way to a joint funeral.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — October 7th, 1998.**

It took three weeks, but Draco worked it out. The tears, that is.

(Or he had a theory, and that was good enough.)

Classes were much the same as ever, a perpetual loop of questions and scrawled answers. Given the increased difficulty of N.E.W.T.s, he was left with little in the way of personal time. He studied his textbooks, he attended his patrols along a perpetually silent Granger and he spent what little free time he was afforded on the Quidditch pitch. He wouldn’t bother with the Slytherin team. He had lost what little skill he possessed and he refused to try if he thought he might lose.

And he might.

The thought of some snotty Fourth year beating him — he wouldn’t do it at all. He couldn’t stomach the loss, couldn’t fathom it. Blaise timed his Snitch captures and he had gotten worse. It was embarrassing, so much so that he didn’t even play in the informal leagues between houses for fun. He sneaked out instead and flew in the night to flick dew drops from the grass and chase stars. At least it was something for him, something private.

And that was how Draco had worked it out.

The Granger sobbing thing.

At first he hadn’t known what to think. Because it’s Granger, after all. She never needed a reason to be miserable. He assumed it was something stupid like a book was borrowed or she’d gotten a question wrong on a test. But then he watched her each morning across the Great Hall. Because when she woke up, she bounced and smiled and rushed downstairs.

And then she’d wait for the Owl post.

And then she’d droop.

And that was it.

The first part of the problem at least. He watched her watch the owls because she was so obvious about it. Her mouth hung wide open and she smiled, like an owl might shit in her mouth and he wanted to see that. It’d be a laugh at least, and worth the tens of times that it didn’t happen.

It’d make the minutes he spent watching her mean something more than learning how her teeth didn’t touch when she smiled, not all the way, or how she would move her whole head rather than just her eyes. It’s a thing ladies do, his mother had told him, a manners thing. Sometimes she had her hair up in a braid, which was a disaster. It showed off her neck and made her look like girl from one of those Victorian novels with their plain faces and sharp wit.

But he had to kill the time between letters somehow, so he watched her.

It was better than Astoria, who leaned into him and touched his thigh like he might spasm from such a thing. But she might as well have grabbed the bench itself for all the reaction she got. But the lack of a reaction was enough for her, as she smiled and giggled with her friends.

Granger was waiting for a letter, but about what?

Or, from whom?

The owl post part he worked out first. The next part came by mistake.

One night when he’d headed out of his dorm to fly by night, he’d seen her.

She was often by the fireplace, as Avery and Rodger kept to their dorms. So Granger claimed the lounge, as if she could strongarm the other three into a friendship if she made herself available. She had laid out hot chocolates and snacks, she had put out some books with their names on them, of the books she thought they might like, but it all remained untouched. Avery and Rodger would take the books sometimes but he doubted they read them.

His stack of books was at least three feet tall, and yet she added to it, week after week.

But right now she had the fireplace bright and a big blanket across her lap. Her great ugly cat was asleep upside-down with his eyes rolled back into his head. He looked like he’d died and she hadn’t noticed.

But his gaze was on her, or the back-third of her face.

She had a luxurious stationery set with gold trim and red roses printed in the corners. A wax seal kit sat beside it, gold ink that was chromatic in the firelight. He couldn’t see what the seal was, but he’d assume it was her initials. She hadn’t noticed him as he walked past, but he watched her for a few seconds, how her handwriting looped and how she drew dainty flowers around a name; Ronald Weasley. An address followed it, along with a letter. A thick letter if the several scrolls were true to size.

Granger had small handwriting too, and she wrote dense notes.

He’d watched her press a kiss to a corner of parchment and fold it up. It was the sort of kiss that would float out and catch the recipient on the cheek. His mother used to send them and he refused to open them at the table in the Great Hall. He smiled in spite of himself but pressed on.

She hadn’t noticed him.

How many letters had she sent Weasley to receive none in return?

Granger never received letters in the post.

And he continued to watch her for those few weeks, because the man was stupid but not that stupid. Yet, no letters.

He knew. He watched her. 

Which brought him to the Great Hall this fine October morning, with the owls in the air a familiar sight. A group of three owls swooped as one to drop a giant fluffy bouquet of daisies onto her.

Call it boredom, morbid curiosity, or just blind faith that the Weasley boy mustn’t be that stupid.

There was no note on the flowers, he knew that for a fact. For once, he didn’t watch her face, not as she plucked them up and poked through the flowers. It was just pathetic, to have her wait and wait for nothing. A pity gesture with flowers devoted to insincerity; that he’d never tell. It isn’t about him, he doesn’t care, it’s not about seeing her, or seeing her happy or mad or however she wants to feel. It’s just a bone, tossed between the empty void the letters left because Draco might die from embarrassment if he has to watch her wilt one more time.

Draco was halfway across the hall and even he could see it — even if no one else seemed to have noticed.

He kept his gaze fixed to Astoria who was against his bicep, half-asleep on her toast. He shook her, false smile, false eyes, just enough to get her upright.

She said something and laughed, and he laughed because he hadn’t heard her. He rarely listened to her. She didn’t say much really, platitudes, she was easy to be around. Easy to please, easy to read. Sometimes it was nice to be around someone who was easy to be around.

Not everything had to be chess.

Classes sprinted by and then he had no choice but to look at Granger.

She had a daisy tucked behind her ear.

Draco felt his chest seize as if he might snatch it out of her hair and stamp it. But he couldn’t bring himself to tear it from her. Instead he sneered through the shadows of the Dungeons as they waited for Snape. He almost spoke, to ask about the flower, but he couldn’t. It’d be obvious and he had sent them as — just, a break, she needed a break. She looked so sad all the time and it was so easy to avoid. He didn’t want to have to look at her stupid sobbing face all over again, week after week. 

Snape wafted them in like a cool draft and they took to their tables. The instructions appeared on the board and Snape spoke in loose terms, about how hard it was and how disappointed he was. None of it ever applied to Draco, as he had prepared more potions in his life than the entire class combined. His mother enjoyed Potions and Snape visited during his summers, for tea or for talks, and so he had an advantage. He always had an advantage, in truth, and yet he still felt behind.

“I thought it might be good for me to prepare ingredients this week,” she said, her hand extended to catch his wrist.

He had begun to cut the bat wings into small slivers without thought.

Half the class was to make a poison; the other half would make a cure. They’d have to rely on one another, class-wide.

“If you want,” Draco shook off her hand.

She looked at his left wrist, the one she’d grabbed, and withdrew. She didn’t wilt or pout. Instead she began to prepare the ingredients that needed to be sliced and diced. He didn’t correct her because she was good enough for it to work, though several of the diced toad livers were… A little off.

“Why do you always cut things?” Granger asked, her tone light.

“I used to do it for Crabbe and Goyle,” Draco said, his voice tight as he passed over Crabbe’s name.

“That’s surprisingly sweet of you,” she said, a smile.

“If they screwed up, Snape would punish me,” Draco leveled off some moonstone powder. He had portioned a smaller cauldron out to mix his own cure, as he didn’t trust the other half of the room. He left Hermione to create the poison, as if she failed, it wouldn’t matter either way.

“And yet they made mistakes often,” Snape said as he brushed past. He didn’t comment on Draco, or how he’d begun to prepare his own cure.

Granger grinned as if it was funny and Draco wanted to slap the daisy off of her but — he couldn’t. It was a relief to see her something other than miserable.

He’d finished his small catch-all cure for the Nightshade Nectar. Granger’s hair had plumed with the humidity. He watched, her unsure what to make of her in the steam and shadows. She looked pleased with herself, pleased with her concoction. It bubbled and hissed, though it looked much like acid mixed with tar.

“Exchange cures and poisons,” Snape gestured wide. “Keeping in mind that I have a cure at the front, should your classmate fail you.”

Draco ladled the poison Hermione had made into a cup and drank it without hesitation. She was clever; at least if he were to die by this poison, it’d be immediate.

The next thing he saw was her framed by the ceiling.

She was crying.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, thick and wet. 

This had been why he’d sent the daisies; he didn’t want to see her sob.

“The daisy fell in, and — “

“It amplified the rate of absorption.” That was Snape, who hovered beside them.

Draco laughed. He couldn’t help it.

They didn’t go on a patrol that evening. He had to be escorted to the Hospital Wing, as the daisy had blended with the poison. He wasn’t going to die from it but he had thrown up six times and rather wished that he had died. She didn’t stop crying, not from the Potions classroom, not through the halls, not even as she sat beside him in the Hospital Wing.

“I’m fine Granger.” Draco exhaled through his raw throat. “Either stop crying or leave.”

Granger opted to leave.

When he closed his eyes he saw her, smile on her face and a daisy behind her ear.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Friday — October 9th, 1998.**

Draco had recovered within the day and Granger avoided him. She buzzed past the Slytherin table to apologize, but she kept away otherwise. Everyone had heard about how she had tried to kill him in Potions, how the Golden Girl of Gryffindor had tried to do the school a favor. Or, if they weren’t wrapped around her finger, they pitied Draco and how he’d trusted her, how she’d taken the daisy on purpose, she was smart, she had to have known.

But Draco didn’t blame her. She didn’t wear flowers in her hair and she wasn’t malicious. If she wanted him dead, he’d be dead. He trusted her on that. But she kept to herself and avoided his eye and he hadn’t realized how much he’d waited for her to speak to him, but he had. 

But she didn’t speak. 

Not during History of Magic or Transfiguration, nor Charms or Arithmancy.

They passed one another in their dorms and spoke in the hours between Potions and patrols. That was the extent of their intimacy and Draco had been pleased with that. At least he had located her reason for misery each morning when the post failed to arrive. And he’d tried to fix it and almost gotten himself killed for his kindness. There was a metaphor in there somewhere, but he still tasted the ash and daisies when he closed his mouth.

Friday afternoon, after Charms, he tailed her out of the classroom.

She had her attention buried deep in her satchel so she hadn’t noticed his approach.

“Hermione,” he said, because she’d called him Draco since he’d gotten back to school. 

With how bright her eyes were, her smile, he wished he’d stuck to Granger for her name.

“You haven’t been to Hogsmeade yet, have you,” Draco said, his voice sharp in the silence.

Hermione stood in the corridor, with an expression like she might run if given the chance. “I’ve been too busy, with N.E.W.T.s. No reason to go really, I don’t want sweets or tea,” she rattled off reason, but it hadn’t been the question.

“I’ve been meaning to go.”

“Oh,” Hermione smiled, her smile tart. “You should then.”

Draco parted his lips but stayed silent. “I will.”

“Good,” Hermione’s brow furrowed. “Sorry again about the daisy.”

“No more sorry than I am, believe me.” And he left her in the corridor. He skipped patrol and she didn’t seek him out. Rodger got back late, complained about Hermione, about how she’d snatched him up to take Draco’s place. About how Draco needed to pull his weight, that just because he had been sick wasn’t an excuse.

Draco watched Rodger with careful attention. He wondered if he were to dismember the boy if he’d start with his feet and work upwards, or begin with his fingers. He pulled him apart with his eyes and any shred of confidence Rodger had melted away as he slipped into his half of the room.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Sunday — October 11th, 1998.**

Astoria sat across his lap, her weight against the balls of her feet and her face level with his. She had wanted to see the Head Dormitory and he had obliged, but he was a fucking idiot because he’d not followed the thread of her logic. She asked about his room, because it must be nice to have a private room, and he’d agreed. And he sat with his back against his headboard, not sure how he’d wound up with her in his lap.

Inattention, that was it.

She nipped at his neck and he tightened his grip on her hair. She stopped, at least clever enough to pick up the cue. Her eyes watered as she smiled wider, a dare between her lips, but Rodger slammed through the door so hard his divider shuddered.

“ — her!”

From the grit and the tension, that had been the last shred of a fight.

Fantastic.

Draco grabbed Astoria across her plump face, to keep her quiet. He fumbled with his wand to ward the curtains, as he’d not had a reason to charm against sound. He didn’t snore and liked to wake easily. He didn’t like to be in soundless spaces, it was worse than clocks. But the room softened around them, so they could still hear the ripple of Rodger through the room as he huffed and puffed as if his life was so difficult.

“You have to do patrols, Rodger.”

That was Hermione.

“She’s unreliable,” Rodger sniped back, another slam.

“She’s the Head Girl for Hufflepuff, perhaps just speak with her — ”

“Oh, sure, like you and Malfoy have such a good rapport.”

“He hasn’t had the easiest time adjusting.”

“Hermione, he’s killed people, he’s a fucking Death Eater as if you can possibly justify wanting to be around him. You of all people…”

If Hermione said anything, he missed it. 

“Can’t you just shove Avery onto him, so we can patrol together?” Rodger sounded desperate and Draco had half a mind to lunge out, to defend himself. But he didn’t. It didn’t matter who he did his patrols with.

“I’ll speak to McGonagall, if it means that much to you.”

They were quieter now, closer. Astoria had begun to grind against him as if this were the time for such a thing and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t fancy the idea of bursting into a conversation half-dressed and half-hard. It wouldn’t make his case compelling as to why he should be allowed to be alone with Hermione. It’d make everything a thousand times worse. The door clicked and he heard the shapeless direction of footsteps. He flipped Astoria so he was between her thighs.

He still isn’t sure if they fucked or not. He hadn’t been paying attention. He hadn’t finished, if they had, so he hoped they hadn’t. For her sake, for his. She never mentioned that night, good or bad.

All he could remember was the shapeless anger about Rodger.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — October 21st, 1998.**

Hermione continued to watch the owl post but it was worse now. She’d had a taste of daisies and the empty air was all that greeted her.

Draco kept quiet through classes and couldn’t look at her through Potions. She left him in his silence. There was something stuck to her tongue though, there must be. She rolled her gaze over to him, her lips wide and her eyes wider, then nothing. She’d snap her mouth shut and resume her reading. Snape had asked them to sit out this week, as they were doing another poison and cure session. He didn’t trust either of them, even though it had been her mistake he’d almost died.

(Or his mistake, if you looked at the big picture.)

Draco arrived at the dungeons. As his gaze landed on Rodger, he decided that he’d work his way up from the boy’s feet, to pull out each toenail then each bone. He’d feed them to him, watch him chew through his own offal and guts, and slowly, so slowly get to his head.

“Evening Malfoy,” Rodger said, like the fucking idiot he was. “Seems we’ve been put together for patrols.”

“As if you can possibly justify wanting to be around me. You of all people..." An echo of Rodger’s words.

Rodger didn’t speak for the rest of their patrol.

By the time he got back to the dorms, Granger was strewn in her usual spot in front of the fireplace. He let Rodger go to their room untouched, though he wanted to ram his head straight into the wall until he stopped moving. But he hovered in the shadows afforded by the low light. The bronze clock above the fireplace ticked, tocked, ticked, tocked.

“You could have told me,” Draco said, his voice strict. 

Hermione jumped clear off the couch. As if the point was made for him.

“If you didn’t feel safe around me. If you didn’t want to be around me. You could have said.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Hermione went red in the low light. Always red. Her gaze shifted to the dorms, her face full of the blood he’d seen on her forearm several months ago. “I thought you’d rather not be with me anyway. You never talk.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “Neither did you.”

Hermione swallowed, her throat bobbed with visible tension.

“You have a habit of speaking without thinking,” Draco added, unsure how to phrase it. “I assumed if you had things you wanted to say, you’d say them.”

“I didn’t want to annoy you.”

“You don’t.”

Hermione stared as if she expected him to lunge for her. And part of him wanted to, though for perhaps different reasons. He wanted to shake her, to make her be honest, to see her eyes up close and to watch her expression shift, to see the fear and to see the tears. Perhaps if he saw it, that fear of him, he’d be able to give her space. The same way he’d felt when she’d flinched on the train, how she’d pulled away from him.

“I asked you,” Draco’s throat strained. “If you’d been to Hogsmeade.”

“Yes?”

Draco stared at her as if she were from another plane of existence.

“And I told you I hadn’t yet.”

Draco’s lips worked in small, misshapen circles. “I was asking if you’d want to go with me, to Hogsmeade.”

He might as well have slapped her from how her expression contorted.

“There’s a bookstore there,” he hesitated. “It opened in the wake of the war, I doubt you’ve seen it. My mother mentioned it to me.”

“I’m with — “

“If I was asking you on a date, I’d ask you on a date,” Draco said, his voice flat. “I asked if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade, don’t pick your wedding dress, Granger.”

“Why?”

“Has Weasley come yet?” Draco said, his voice distant. “To visit?”

“He sent flowers.”

Draco remained cool, his expression lazy. “The daisies?”

Hermione smiled and he’d watched it happen. The corners of her lips tucked up and away, her gaze diverted. It was the same expression she must have had when she received them. She looked like she had a secret she couldn't share. He didn’t correct her. There was no point. Instead he locked eyes with the bronze clock as the second hand inched across the face.

“I’ll check out the bookstore,” Hermione said, her voice thin. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Draco sneered through the firelight and went to his bedroom.

His mouth tasted of ash and daisies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever hurt your own feelings.


	5. Chapter 5

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Friday — October 23th, 1998.**

Patrol with Rodger was a chore and a bore all mixed into one. Draco felt his skin crack and his eyes sink into his head. As it wasn’t a matter of silence, rather, it was endless chatter. He spoke about his summer and how he’d pieced together his family’s home and something about charity. It was a special sort of torture, the kind that Draco couldn’t have even thought of if given a month and a million Galleons — no, the mundanity within which Rodger thrived was seemingly endless.

Like if Professor Binns had more to say about fewer things.

“And, of course, I’ll be playing for Ravenclaw — the Team Captain, as you can imagine,” he continued. “I expect you not to go easy on me, no, I bet you’ll be eager to use the opportunity to show off one of your expensive brooms. Well, I can tell you, while they are fancy and new, you cannot buy tactics.”

“Nor tact,” Draco drawled so softly that Rodger paused. But he didn’t seem to have processed it, as he continued, unaffected.

Draco remained affected.

By the time they finished their round, they arrived at the Fourth floor corridor that led to their dorm. Rodger split off for the room with such speed that Draco had to laugh. As if he were the one eager to escape. Good. It allowed Draco the chance to slip onto the balcony as he did most nights. He would have to go to Hogsmeade over the weekend to stock up, as he’d gone from two cigarettes a week to at least a pack.

It was an excuse to get outside and to be alone, along with the natural relief of the tobacco. It had been cured with restorative herbs and an agent that mitigated the off-scent that carried with the cigarettes. It was still there on his fingers and breath, but he spent far more on a better product. He could make shapes from the smoke if he was bored. He would often form little Quidditch players or dragons, silly things, but only when he’d had liquor along with the cigarettes.

He’d been so determined he’d not noticed the girl on the stone wall, her back against the building. Hermione, he realized with a low breath of relief. She was tucked against a small inner wall, an alcove that sat against the ornate window and a planter. Whatever plants had been here before had died, probably during the summer or the war, as there was far more to do for the grounds at large. It made sense a few flowers had died.

“Hermione?” He said, his voice light and gentle, so as to not scare her over the edge. She wasn’t even close to the edge, of course, but she jumped at the strangest of things.

But she didn’t turn. She had parchment in her lap and her fist balled up against her mouth.

Draco thought about going back inside, to avoid the situation whatever it may be.

Bravery wasn’t his thing; it was hers.

“Sorry,” she exhaled, breathy and thin. “I’ll go, you can have this — sorry,” she repeated as she slid from the wall.

“Why are you always crying?” He asked, his voice sharp.

Hermione brushed past him and he caught her elbow. He hadn’t meant to but in the firelight her eyes sparked gold and his hand shot out. She didn’t strain away. She pivoted and buried her face into his chest and sobbed, loudly, as if the fist against her mouth had been all that had kept her quiet. She cried into his shirt and was committed to the act as if she’d forgotten she was Hermione Granger and that he was Draco Malfoy.

It was just her, a girl crying, and him — just him.

The shock wore away and he thought of his mother. A strange thought, no doubt, but she cried often. He didn’t have words for her, or for Hermione. He set a hand onto her shoulder, his right hand, to squeeze her shoulder. When she didn’t flinch or shove him away he let the hand shift, beneath that awful bulk of her hair, so warm he might die from exposure to it, then across her shoulders. And he stood one arm around her, his chin on her head.

Perhaps she’d mistaken him for someone else, but he’d allow her this moment.

She clearly needed it.

As the shifts and sobs subsided she pulled back, not enough to be away from him but enough that her nose wasn’t impaled into his chest. He hadn’t minded, he was shell-shocked. He felt halfway into a dream, but his dreams were always awful. They were full of dead bodies and snakes, people being eaten by them, venom, vines, thorns. He looked down at her in the low light of the moon and saw red.

Red eyes, red cheeks, red lips where she’d chewed a split into the plush of them.

She’d taste of copper, were he a stupider man.

Yet he stood, impassive, borderline unaffected. At least as he looked at her. He tried to be neutral, to show no anger or sadness or anything, as if she’d asked him the time. He didn’t know what else to do, she had flung herself at him in tears when he’d tried to check on her. Anything felt like the wrong thing to do.

“I’m sorry,” she patted his shirt which was wet against his skin. Her fingertips paused on the spot as she sobered to him, to them, the wet mask of her tears impressed upon him.

“Did something happen?” He asked his tone even.

The parchment in her fist turned to a leaf in the wind as she gestured with it. “I asked Ron to come down, I’ve asked for weeks, and he keeps saying next week, next week, what’s the rush — ”

“Is there a rush?” Draco asked as if he were a therapist. Which was amusing to think on given how he’d benefit from a sit-down with anyone, to talk through how his hands weren’t his hands and how he often felt like he wasn’t in his body. That he was just a point of consciousness, being pushed forward by a meat wreck that shook when it was too warm or too cold. He reached down to catch a thick splay of her hair, to shove it from her face. It caught in her lips and lashes, comical and spattering, and she waved a hand to detangle herself.

To pull away from him.

“No,” her voice was hot.

He’d said the wrong thing.

What was that, less than ten words?

A record. He was so good at setting records.

“If there’s no rush then why are you upset that he keeps pushing back the dates?”

“Because,” Hermione said, her voice heavy with intonation. She had a way of turning two syllables into four, even when her lip was split open and her face was bright red. “He should want to see me, shouldn’t he. If we’re dating. It isn’t as if it’s impossible for him to visit, to Apparate or come by, to come to see me, to come to check on me.”

He preferred when she’d been face-deep in his chest and sobbing.

“It isn’t so much to ask, is it? To want your boyfriend to come and see you? It’s been almost two months since I’ve seen him, and it’s so easy for him to visit.”

Draco stood, his hands in his pockets as he turned over his wand and his cigarettes. He didn’t want to weigh in, to defend Weasley or agree with Hermione. He didn’t feel comfortable with her being Hermione, either, but she’d called him Draco in no uncertain terms and he felt it was strange to hold her at arm's length by name if she refused to do the same. And yet, he wished he had. He wished she had stormed inside and pouted and fussed.

“I don’t know why I’m complaining to you,” Hermione snorted, the flats of her hands rubbed against her face. She made a snotty sound as she exhaled, her head tipped back. 

He watched her throat bob, teeth sharp against the inside of her cheek.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said, her tone flat and childish as if she’d been made to apologize.

“I didn’t say you were bothering me.”

“You’re just staring at me, not talking.”

“I’m listening to you,” Draco said, his voice level. “You seemed like you had things to say and I let you say them at your own pace.”

Hermione glared at him as if she’d been tricked.

“Have you never had someone pay attention to you, to just listen to you when you speak?”

Hermione’s mouth popped open but she closed it, the flat of her index finger against the cut on her lip. She tongued it as if to catch the blood. She worried her fingertip on the spot, over and over, as if it’d stop bleeding on its own.

Draco pulled out his wand and she stumbled back a step. He felt a rubber band snap from the soles of his feet to his heart as she stared at him, as if afraid of what he was about to do. “May I?” He gestured for her to come closer, his fingers extended for her chin. “You’re going to end up swollen.”

“Why do you care?”

“How else will I listen to you complain if your lips are swollen shut?” Draco smirked through white teeth, eyes dark in the shadows of the moon. He slipped his fingers beneath her chin and cast a small healing spell, one she must know. He watched her run the gamut, from the searing pain to gentle tingle. He tapped her chin up with the crook of his index finger then tapped her nose as he stepped back. It was something his father did to him whenever he’d get scrapes as a child, a gentle gesture than something to set you on edge.

His mother would kiss his wounds better, from scraped knees to bruised elbows. He thought that may not be ideal given any number of reasons, least of all her tear-stained cheeks.

Hermione’s hand hovered by her face, still red in the dark. She dipped her head and made a beeline for the widespread glass doors.

“I’ll be in Hogsmeade over the weekend.”

She paused, though she didn’t look back at him.

“Maybe I’ll see you there.”

And she left.

Draco lingered on the balcony, smoke shapes formed of Granians much like the ones his mother bred. They’d inherited them from his grandfather several years before when he’d died. Most of them had been tortured to death or used as fodder during the war. But the winged horses remained a step between mundane and magical. They didn’t form specific shapes or patterns, just impressions. He didn’t know why.

Anything to distract him from the strange feeling on his chest, where the wet patch began to dry.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Sunday — October 24th, 1998.**

“I really want to go get lunch,” Astoria whined, her hands interlocked on Draco’s bicep.

“So get lunch.”

“But you’re taking your time, my love.”

Draco felt a thick chill run down his spine. He squared his jaw and yanked his arm from her grasp.

She had sweet mittens on with a matched beanie and scarf. Her little pale face poked out amidst it like an adorable kitten and he wanted so badly to yank the beanie over her face altogether. She was sweet, of course. But she had this brattish edge to her, as if her sweetness could balance it out. She would whine at him if he lingered in the Library or try to draw him away from his homework with her own make-believe homework about anatomy.

And right now she had that defiant pout and lust-laden gaze as if she could use her gaze alone to disarm him.

“Aren’t your friends off at the Three Broomsticks?”

“I can’t go alone — ”

“You should,” Draco plucked a book from the shelf, a thick tome on cleaning spells for a modern witch. “I’m not hungry.” He snapped it shut so loud that she jumped.

“But if I go alone, they’ll ask about you…”

Draco looked at her with a deadpan distance behind his eyes. As if he didn’t see her, as if she weren’t there.

“They always say, oh, Draco’s only using you, Draco doesn’t care — ”

“I don’t.”

“You do!”

Draco grabbed her face between the flats of his hands, gentle as he could manage. “What possible reason have you given me to care about you,” he said, his voice as even as before. “Go.”

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as she pulled back and broke into thick tears. She cried in such a way as to still be pretty, her face immobile while the tears flowed. It was like someone had turned the tap within her head and they gushed out. She said something, he didn’t care to listen, and she left. He felt bad about it, more the situation at large. She was sweet and easy to be around, but so was a potted plant or a decorative vase. She was there or she wasn’t, and she’d done as all girls do; she’d played sweet and easy until she thought she had him close enough to pull his strings.

And he’d cut the strings.

Love; what a joke.

He moved along the shelves, his fingers idle as he looked over the books. By the time Daphne got to him, he might feel bad. He’d be able to pretend he felt bad at least, and he’d apologize to her. But she had dogged along from the castle to Hogsmeade in spite of the fact he’d said he wanted to be alone. She had clung to him, nails in his calves and tears in her eyes. They weren’t dating. They weren’t anything. She was fine and easy, and one of dozens of other girls.

Girls he didn’t want.

“I thought you might have it.”

Draco leaned, his knee bent and his head tipped. He saw Granger with her giant halo of brown hair and red-tipped nose. She wore her winter wear early every year. She seemed to be cold all the time, which he found impossible given how hot she ran. He straightened his posture and dipped around the shelves. He kept a book of poetry flipped open as if he’d been in the midst of it.

“Yes, see, that author,” she pointed to a ledger.

The staff at Quaesitum Vellum were older than Draco expected. They must be in their early hundreds with how their joints seemed frozen as they flipped each page. He was afraid they might die in the time it took for each page to settle or between breaths.

“Why I’m not sure…” the small woman with her fine grey hair in a tight bun said. She wore deep navy robes with silver trim like midnight woven into a garment. It seemed too formal to be a uniform — perhaps they were the owner. “The last book I saw of theirs… Was at least…”

To his surprise, Hermione listened with her full attention. She didn’t fidget or fuss, she listened. It was perhaps the stillest and quiet he’d seen her outside of her patrols.

“I found it, ‘Mione!”

Hermione turned to look at Draco, which struck him as odd. He’d not spoken. And then he was knocked, elbow to his shoulder. The hairs flared along the back of Draco’s neck as he picked the clumsy gait and drawl of Weasley. Ronald, that is, the tallest one. So tall that his brains had been stretched thin. The flash of red hair and a long nose confirmed his morbid suspicion.

“Ah, sorry Malfoy,” Weasley said, the least sorry he’d ever sounded in his miserable life.

Hermione lit up as Weasley approached, a thick book of old astronomy charts in hand. She accepted it with a wide smile as if it were Christmas.

Draco couldn’t look away.

Was it miserable to compare the descent of Weasley’s lips to Granger’s of a body to the floor? He felt the same sick lurch in his stomach like he wanted to do something but it was too late to help. Instead, he stood, open poetry bookmarked with his thumb as he stared. He was at least collected enough to maintain polite horror, and so he stared, indifferent as if he were waiting for her to move out of the way. 

Granger smiled at Draco past Weasley’s bicep and he refused to return it.

He remained static, dead behind the eyes. He’d perfected the technique. He’d had plenty of practice. Not to mention the fact he didn’t care. Of course, Weasley had shown up for her, she had sent him essays about school. Perhaps she had begged especially well in her last letter or Weasley had finally worked out the stakes.

They shifted so Granger could review the book her pet had brought her. Draco moved with mechanical precision, his hands were distant and his neck too warm. He didn’t wait to speak to the shopkeeper, or to Granger. She hadn’t tried to speak to him anyway. She’d looked straight through him. Of course. This was a series of moments, all these _of course_ moments, the sort you looked at and pieced together. He tossed the Galleons onto the front desk with a slim level of attention.

“Oh, that book is only two Galleons,” she picked up the fifteen or so he’d thrown onto the desk.

“Keep it,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. He tucked it beneath his arm and made a beeline for the door. He didn’t even know what book he’d bought, not really. Poetry. It was poetry. But he hadn’t read it. He wasn’t likely to either. It had just been the sort of book he had thought would be interesting to be found with.

He was going to leave.

He was.

“Malfoy.”

“Ron,” Granger said, her voice sharp. Identical to how she had sounded in Diagon Alley, though he had the advantage of independence. He didn’t have to worry about his mother or what might happen to her.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed you, Weasley,” Draco waved a hand as if he’d caught a bad smell. “Though it explains the stench.”

“Throwing money around still works wonders, hm?” Weasley sneered, a pale imitation of the looks that Draco passed with ease.

“Interesting,” Draco said, not interested in the least. “Is that a crime to tip? I suppose you wouldn’t know, you’re normally the one receiving the handout.”

“Having money doesn’t mean shit if you’re a Death Eater.”

Draco smiled, the fine line of his teeth exposed while his eyes remained like a dagger poised to strike. His gaze slid from Weasley to Granger, who had puffed in the heat of the store. She looked mortified, though he couldn’t place why. The store had fallen silent, however, and the patrons had all turned to stare at him.

“You should be locked up, you and your father — ”

“You work for the Ministry, do you not?” Draco maintained his tone. “I imagine if you take issue with a ruling, you have the correct avenues to discuss that. Instead of public shaming,” he waved a loose hand around the store.

Weasley had turned red to his ears.

“Actually, if we’re in the spirit of dredging personal issues out,” Draco said, his voice loud. The people in the store remained fixed on them out of morbid curiosity. “Send your girlfriend more letters. I don’t want to have to comfort her in your absence any more than I have already.”

Draco didn’t watch for their reactions, didn’t care to.

That hadn’t come out as he’d meant it.

But he made his point.

When he got back to the Head Dorm, he skimmed through the poetry book and scrawled a note with Granger’s name on it. He walked over to the small stacks of books she’d set up for Avery and Rodger, then to his ten-book high stack. He collected his share and kept the poetry book, too. He carted them all into his room and warded his bed, desperate to avoid the situation he’d left behind. 

He shouldn’t have said that.

He didn’t care that much.

He really didn’t.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Saturday — October 31st, 1998.**

Draco didn’t speak to Hermione again after that. Rather, she didn’t speak to him. She gave little more than affirmative sounds when he asked her questions in Potions and she wasn’t in the dorm lounge any longer. Her snacks vanished along with her decorative mugs, and at first he thought she might have moved out altogether. But he saw her between classes when she’d dip into and out of her dorm room. The books she had left for Avery and Rodger vanished. He didn’t know if she’d taken them back or if she’d just not added more — he opted for a lack of new books to recommend.

He used the time to read the books she had left him. And he read them voraciously, without hesitation. They were fiction, which surprised him, and centered around ridiculous romances of the nineteenth century. All Muggle literature too, which struck him as strange, but he had read many Wizarding novels. He would ask her why she’d recommended books about balls and moors, of dark figures and sharp women, but she hadn’t spoken to him.

He couldn’t work out if it was his fault or Weasley’s; he took on the blame, as it was easier to settle on.

Pumpkins had begun to decorate the tables until they became so large a First year had climbed inside one. They were warded and hovered so now they hung in the hallways with grim features carved into them. Peeves dropped them on several students. But they remained, floating and ominous. Candy and enchanted tiny bats floated around if one was quick enough to catch them. The bats were licorice and Draco caught them for the fun of it.

But Saturday morning he passed by Hermione, who was asleep on the couch.

He paused, confused.

She had a blanket and pillows. She was in her pajamas too, dressed for bed. As if she’d intended to sleep on the couch, by choice. As if she didn’t have a room.

Avery appeared, her hair trussed up and a toothbrush loose in her mouth.

Rodger appeared after her, dressed for class despite it being a weekend.

Draco blinked.

Rodger sprinted for their shared dorm while Avery stood, her fake blonde hair yellower than before. “Morning Draco,” she said, an easy smile on her lips.

“Did Rodger do a patrol of your room last night,” Draco said, his tone dead.

Avery laughed like that was a joke but her red blush between the white foam and yellow hair said enough. She walked over to the center door which was used to access the other rooms. She spun the dial and walked through once she’d found her destination. All Draco could hear was the easy chatter of a girls’ dorm on a Saturday morning.

But the screams and yelps sent Granger flying, her wand out and her eyes wild.

The door snapped behind Avery and Draco was left, confused and defenseless.

They stood across from one another, her gaze narrowed at him while her hand shook.

“Did you sleep on the couch?”

“I, yes, I suppose I did,” Hermione turned as red as Avery had been.

“They kicked you out to shag.” Draco rubbed his face. "I thought they hated one another."

"They do."

Draco felt he might commit several Unforgiveable Curses if left unattended.

"It's nice, I suppose, that they worked through it, but I worked so hard to fix their flitty patrol schedule, and Avery told me she was just shy, she didn't want to be around Rodger alone, you see," Hermione crumbled, her stance a different sort of defensive as she scrunched her hands by her face. “And they didn’t tell me to leave, not exactly. I saw Rodger sneak in, and I couldn’t stay in there, I mean, I should have told someone, but I had patrolled all night and re-written my History of Magic essay for Monday three times before then... They were chosen for a reason, and they’re adults, and what, am I going to run around the school and check every bedroom every night, out to peep on — ”

Draco closed the gap, more so they weren’t shouting at one another. Or rather, she wasn’t shouting at him.

“I don’t want to spend my N.E.W.T.s. being the Prude Patrol, out to catch people and — I’m so tired, and I’m so sick of all the — everyone’s so wrapped up in how they feel, you know, I just want to study and to do well, and it’s okay to be upset or to like people, of course, that’s okay, but I cannot be expected to police everyone else, every night, I refuse.”

“Prude Patrol?” Draco echoed, a slant to his smile.

Hermione’s lips quivered.

“No one’s expecting you to catch everything that goes on in the school. That isn’t your job.”

“But it is! I’m Hermione Granger, I’m the Head Girl, I fought Voldemort, I can do everything, can’t I!” She threw her hands up. “I have more patrols than twice a week, you know, I took on an extra set because one of the Prefects kept missing their nights, and I have to run a study group for Second years, the ones who didn’t attend their full year last year, and they — they look at me like I can’t do anything wrong, but I do everything wrong. Everything.”

Draco thought he might cry on her behalf as she paced back and forth.

“And Ron! The bookstore, I meant to, oh, I meant to say I was sorry, he shouldn’t have said that — ”

“No,” Draco waved his hands, to stop her. “Stop.”

Her throat tensed as if she’d said something wrong.

“Stop taking on everything. Especially his mistakes.”

“But I was there, I should have — ”

“What?” Draco said, his brows raised. “I am a Death Eater, Hermione. I have the Dark Mark. I went to trial and I worked alongside my father to make things right. They decided to let me go. It’s done.”

“But you aren’t…”

“I am,” his throat tensed. “I’m a Death Eater.”

“How can you say it like it doesn’t mean anything?”

Draco was adept at expressions. He had learned how to stamp down his brows and flatten his lips. He knew how to be impassive and unaffected. But he couldn’t, not right now, not as she stood there as a flurry of red and brown, as if she had any idea. He yanked his sleeve up, his left sleeve. The Dark Mark was faint but not gone.

“You didn’t choose it though,” she added as if that were an excuse. “You wouldn’t have if you’d had a choice…”

“It’s my skin, Hermione.” He moved closer as if to impress it upon her. He dug his fingers into it, to emphasize the shape. “The worst part of it was the fact it didn’t hurt when they carved it into me. I was so numb, you know. Cruciatus for minutes at a time, over and over. My father wasn’t at home you see, I got back from school, they were waiting.”

Hermione fussed with her blanket, which had tangled around her middle when she’d stood.

“Getting the Mark is usually a point of pride, of celebration. It means you’ve earned it, usually. They kill a Muggle, use the fresh blood as part of the ink.” He thumbed the mark as if it’d wipe off. “Ash from the Muggle’s bones, blood, snake venom, the Dark Lord’s blood, it’s a whole thing.”

She stepped back and he let her.

“The Dark Lord was kind enough to forgo the Muggle death part. I didn’t have to kill anyone — no, he used my mother’s blood instead and the bones of our head House Elf, Schratz. He was dead when I got home, but the blood, they took it from her in front of me,” he smiled but it cracked in seconds. “Took a minute of her, crying. I counted the seconds on my grandfather’s clock — he’d had his heart immortalized into a clock, as a grim reminder of time’s passage or something stupid like that.” 

Hermione detangled herself from the blanket, which revealed her cartoon pajamas. He wanted to shut up, to let her wake up and to be alone. But he couldn’t. Those stupid wide eyes, that still way she paid attention as if she might be quizzed on this later.

“And I counted. Sixty seconds, of her screaming, of her pain. And I have this to remind me of those sixty seconds where I could have made a different choice, I could have done something about it.”

“It’s not your fault,” Hermione said, her voice fiercer than he’d ever heard it. “You were a child.”

“And you were a child when you fought against the Dark Lord, more than once,” he tugged his sleeve back into place, a nasty look shot at the clock above the fireplace. It ticked so loudly as if it were in his skull. “My point is, you have enough problems on your own. Don’t take on others problems -- don't blame yourself for them, either.”

Hermione watched his clothed arm and he wished he’d not brought it up. He should have accepted her apology and shut up.

“Did you take those books?”

He felt his breath catch.

“Did you like them?”

“They were entertaining enough. Interesting use of language. Perhaps a little lovelorn, not what I’d expect from you, Granger.”

Hermione smiled a weak smile, the lack of sleep clear now in her weary features.

“I mean it.”

She woke when he said that, a mixture of confused and alert.

“You aren’t responsible for everyone you meet. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

Her watery smile said that she didn’t agree, but she didn’t argue aloud.

“And if you need a bed, there are three spare ones in my dorm,” he jerked his head. “Rodger split the room down the middle. It’s like two rooms in one.”

Hermione stared at the floor, her hand poised by her mouth. She began to gather her blankets, tears in her eyes. He let her cry, left her to her thoughts. He had said too much and pushed too far. He wanted to gobble the words back up and slap himself over the head. He would have accepted his father’s cane across the temple, in all honesty. Anything to right his stupidity.

“Draco,” she said, her voice thin. “Thank you.”

“For?”

Hermione smiled, her head dropped. “Caring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione gave Draco all of Jane Austen and some of the Bronte sisters because it's my story and I'll do as I PLEASE.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sunday — November 8th, 1998.**

The first Quidditch match of the season between Slytherin and Ravenclaw was a slaughter and it was only halfway finished. Draco had gone to support Blaise, who had been made the captain.

This was a decision Draco questioned as he watched the Slytherin team. Their Seeker was a Second year who kept flying in circles so fast he threw up twice. The Ravenclaw Chasers flew circles around the Slytherins Chasers, getting goal after goal. The Keeper had flown into a goal post at least four times.

It may have gotten worse, or maybe they’d make a recovery — Draco didn’t know. He didn’t care either. He was just here to support his friend, who he felt less friendly towards given the pathetic display.

Astoria’s prodded his thigh and shoulder, alternated pressure, as she hissed at him that they needed to talk about what happened. He couldn’t even remember what had happened.

The book store?

Or had something else happened?

In any case, he ignored her, and she jabbed him harder and he had to go. He couldn’t stand the walk of shame back to the dorms, given that when he left Slytherin was down one hundred and eighty points.

A Slytherin beater swung so hard the bat flew out of their hand and hit Flickwick in the stands.

And so he left as quick as he could manage in the cover of screams.

Draco didn’t have much at Hogwarts except for classes and the few friends he’d retained from his earlier, more sociable years. He hadn’t made new friends and he didn’t trust anyone enough to try. Those few he knew were loyal were all he wanted or needed. Aside from classes, he had Quidditch, and he’d watched that get murdered before his eyes. He hadn’t bothered with tryouts, he’d not even gone to be polite.

His fingers dug into the scar Potter had carved their Sixth year.

That black pit in his chest felt bottomless like he might fall into it.

By the time he got to the dorm, he’d made peace with his misery. He didn’t feel any worse than usual but he at least expected to feel better now that he was away from that awful match. It should feel good to know that Slytherin suffered without him, but that hadn’t even given him caustic joy. It just reminded him how fucking shitty he was at Quidditch if the little barfy Second year had gotten the position. He would have jumped off the Astronomy Tower if he’d tried out and lost —

Hermione was in the lounge, her writing kit spread across the table and her head bent low.

Draco walked over to sit on the floor to her right. They made an L-shape, her with her back to the couch while he leaned against a plush armchair. She’d set the fire going and stacked her textbooks all around her. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assumed she was out to do a summoning ritual around a book-themed demon.

“Draco,” she said as a greeting.

“Hermione.”

“Already beat Ravenclaw then?” Her voice thinned as she withdrew her hands from the table. She took the letter she’d been writing with her, but he could see Ron’s name, the pretty inked flowers, and the gold-trimmed kisses pressed to paper.

“I wasn’t playing.”

“You didn’t get onto the team?” Hermione frowned at him, quizzical.

“Father couldn’t afford to bribe them this time,” he said with a saccharine smile, all teeth.

Draco watched Hermione fall backward into their Second year, where she’d implied he had bought his way onto the team. He snatched up her wax seal which had a Gryffindor crest. He dropped it as if it had burned his fingers. It didn’t really suit her, so unlike her, he would say. Rather like it was school business rather than a love letter.

He let his gaze slip back to her face, where she sat in perfect silence.

“Am I interrupting you?” He asked, caution in his tone.

“No,” Hermione said, her letter poised before her lips. She blew on it to dry the ink and he watched, unable to look away. “Ron’s written me more letters, you know. Since you yelled at him about it.”

Draco paled.

The fucking book store.

He never should have gone. She hadn’t really brought it up, he thought she’d forgotten about it.

“I meant to ask,” she folded the letter up to interlock it with three others. She had written a letter for each day as if she’d noted down an itinerary of everything she’d been up to while at school. A hot flash of arrogance brought himself to mind, of whether she’d told Weasley about their classes together. Or about how she’d poisoned him, or how they’d shared a cigarette, or how he’d stroked her head as she sobbed into his chest.

“Ask then,” Draco prompted with a flat wave of his hand.

“How did you know that I was writing to Ron and receiving no responses?”

Draco had always wondered if it were possible to cast the Killing Curse upon yourself if you really hated yourself enough. His legs were jelly, he couldn’t make it to the Astronomy Tower, or even the balcony — 

“Because when I first got back I was writing to him quite a lot, perhaps too much…” She trailed off, the letters crimped between her fingertips. “I like to tell him things, though I do wonder if he likes to hear things from me, you know? But he’s gotten better since then. I thought you should know... So, thank you, in a strange way.”

Draco hadn’t watched her during the Owl Post anymore. He hadn’t thought to.

“But, when we were at the store, you seemed — angry, that you had to console me, but you’ve… You have, several times. And you’ve tried to attend Hogsmeade with me. I enjoy working with you in Potions, and — ”

“Do you have a point?”

“Do you want to be friends?” The words fell from her mouth like she’d pushed them off a cliff, like a tumble of syllables she’d not been ready to say. “If not, I can leave you alone.”

Friends?

Draco shifted on the spot but moved his leg so quickly that he knocked his knee. The pain didn’t rush to his brain, he was too — too everything.

“We can be friends if you like,” she added, her voice gentle. “On Halloween, you spoke about your Mark, about quite personal things. And, I just felt that perhaps you don’t have people to talk to… About that sort of thing. And I know that can be difficult… Everything you went through and that your family went through,” she spoke as if she were trying to coax a dragon into purloining its horde.

Go, you idiot. He stood up which made it worse. Because from where he stood, he had to stare down at her. Her on her knees with her palms on her thighs and those bright brown eyes turned up at him in the firelight. He could reach out and drag his fingers through her hair, worse things, but he snatched that train out of the air before it took off.

Wide eyes, soft lips, that expectant look behind her eyes.

It’s all wrong.

Because somehow the word ‘friends’ sat in all the wrong ways along his shoulders like a skewed tailors pattern. All the seams ran ragged around the word, all the grain failed to match. He stretched and strained and felt like he might scream if she spoke further. He lost his attention to the ticking clock which pulsed to his right, like an uninvited third-party. He can’t possibly want to be Hermione’s friend. The word scratched like a file against his teeth.

But she remained serene and warm like she’d understand if he spat in her face and said no.

Who in their right mind asked someone to be their friend?

(He had, First year.)

You earned friendship, it wasn’t given. It was something you took after you did enough after you proved that you were reliable and useful in equal measure. Trust wasn’t a necessary factor unless you really, truly cared about them. Draco had so many friends he didn’t trust, so few that he trusted completely. He realized in that flash of a second that he’d never told anyone about the Mark, about how his mother’s blood had been used to forge it.

A half-there smile tucked itself into Hermione’s cheek like a dimple, soft and patient.

He should say no. Laugh in her face, tip her ink onto her head and walk off to his dorm.

Anything.

“If you don’t want to be friends, that’s fine,” Hermione conceded, a strain to her brow. “I’m just tired of the tension, not with you necessarily. Just with how we all were, before, always chasing one another, always picking on one another. All the houses at odds.”

“So my mild concern for you has turned into friendship — how did this come about, Granger?” He snorted, as he’d been too quiet for too long.

“I decided at the start of the semester,” she said, no hesitation.

“Pardon?”

“I fear we became friends when you decided to come back to Hogwarts as Head Boy. As much out of necessity as anything else,” she said, a private smile on her lips. Like she knew something and she wouldn’t say it out loud.

And he smiled back at her because she’s such a presumptuous tart. It reminded him in some strange way of how he’d tried to befriend Potter in his first year, to be rejected hand over fist.

“If we were to become friends, though, I would appreciate a shift in study schedules. I read your essay for History of Magic, I — ” her voice thinned. “I happened upon it on Professor Binns’ desk, and you managed to summarize an event in a very clever manner.”

“Ooh!” Draco drew out the sound, longer than necessary. “Now it makes sense. You want to use me for good grades.”

“No!”

“No, no, now it makes sense!” Draco threw his hands up, mock-anger on his face. He furrowed his brow and bared his teeth, though he smiled too wide for it to be real upset. “Here I thought we’d actually grown to care for one another, that you might like me, and yet here I am, a mere grade — ”

“I do like you!” Hermione jumped up to chase Draco. He had marched for his dorm.

“No Granger, please, don’t make this into something it isn’t,” he laughed in cruel peels. He couldn’t keep a straight face. “I admire your cunning though, I’ll give you that. Stealing my essay to glean answers — very snake-like of you.”

“I didn’t steal your paper, I just happened to see it.”

“And somehow, in seeing my work, you decided to be my friend,” Draco raised a brow at her, the thick weight of sarcasm enough to disguise the thread of truth. It’s just a joke, obviously. It’s all a joke. “So it has nothing to do with my concern for you, does it”

“I like you well enough, don’t twist my words,” Hermione gritted her teeth as she stalked behind him. She hated it when people left an argument, as much as she hated vague answers.

Draco stopped, which slammed her into his back. He staggered a fraction and used the momentum to turn, to raise a brow down at her. “You’re sure you like me?”

“Well enough,” Hermione repeated, blind to her words.

Draco pivoted and found himself faced with her, as short as she was. So slight, too. Something much like a metal ball dropped in his stomach, a heavy sense of something in all the numbness. His throat strained against the sensation as he glared down at her, not annoyed in the slightest. He wished he was angry with her, or that he could say no to her. But he can’t. He’s too weak and lonely to turn her away. He could have been alone until the end of time, but he’d never felt lonely before.

Not like this, not with the idea that she might vanish if he told her to go.

“I’m sorry for saying you were bad at Quidditch,” she said as if that were the thing to apologize for. “You’re quite good at it. Which is annoying, as you were such a — a bully about it.”

“Sorry for calling you — “ his gaze flicked to her arm out of instinct and he grimaced. “Sorry for every encounter you’ve ever had with me, including this one.”

Hermione smiled as if it were a joke.

It’s all a joke, isn’t it?

Why wasn’t he laughing?

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she reached out to pat his bicep, her thumb brushed against his thin shirt. He’d ditched his coat on the couch and he wished he’d kept it on. Her grip was firm but pliable, a strange reassurance in the quiet. She felt like a kettle pressed to his skin, too warm, all he could picture was her hand elsewhere. He flexed out of habit and her grip shifted, and there was something in her expression. Something he wanted to see again, closer. 

Rodger burst into their main dorm area, to which Hermione and Draco leaped apart. Only when she was away from him had he realized how close she had gotten. A foot away, perhaps two. But Rodger had Avery in his arms as they mixed curse words and kisses. Hermione split for her space of writing and letters, while Draco disappeared into his room.

Hours later, wherein he read in bed, he heard the door click open.

Patent leather shoes tapped across the floor, a series of rustles, then silence.

He didn’t check, but he let himself believe that Hermione had taken the offer to share the room if she needed to. She was as tired and miserable as he was, here for her grades and little else. The Prude Patrol, as she had titled it, could wait for today.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — November 11th, 1998.**

The act of being Hermione’s friend was much the same as not being her friend.

Granted, it had been four days since she’d conceded the title to him, but she hadn’t spoken to him anymore or less than before. She did smile at him in the mornings and she left some tea alongside a book about a Muggle who strung dead bodies together. But then the body parts had feelings, and then he had feelings inside those feelings... Franken-something. The name hadn't stuck in his mind, but he took that as a good sign, in her morbid, strange little way.

He arranged a beautiful leather journal and quill set to be sent to her, his name included on the card this time. He watched it arrive with growing anxiety.

It hadn’t been that expensive or difficult to arrange. It had been easy, and an easy idea. He’d have bought such a thing for any other friend, should he want to, but he’d never wanted to. But as she began to peel apart the ornate silver paper, he looked away. He couldn’t handle it if she hated it. He had thought of it as she often wrote but she rarely wrote for herself. She wrote for school and for Weasley, but she struck him as the sort of person that should write to work through their ideas and — 

It was a stupid idea, actually. Oh, Merlin, he was a fucking idiot.

An actual Weasley-grade dolt.

As the hall emptied, he waited, waited until the rest of the hall had left.

Astoria remained several spaces along. He had Arithmancy, with Hermione, and he had made a stupid choice.

It was as if he enjoyed pain.

“Are you skipping class?” Astoria stood, her body angled towards the exit.

Draco didn’t respond. He was locked in a frantic spiral wherein it went well and terribly as if he could mitigate the damage if he imagined it just right. He could think of the perfect thing to say and then it would be fine. If she liked it, then he could laugh it off. If she hated it, he’d shrug it off, because what did he care, he didn’t care, that was the thing of it.

Merlin, why did he care.

“Oh, forget it,” Astoria huffed, her pretty face curdled. She left and he watched as the plates vanished, one at a time.

There was a grace period before class of ten minutes or so. Given that classes were sprawled all over the grounds, the students needed time to make it there. But Draco remained past those ten minutes and that was worse. If he went to class now, the whole room would turn to look at him, and Hermione would point at him and laugh, and tell everyone he’d gotten her a journal and a pretty quill, and wasn’t he a stupid boy, out to throw Galleons around in lieu of real affection. He’s an empty pit of a man, an empty boy, all he has is gifts and that arm’s length between himself and the world.

And she’d touched his arm, and that distance fell apart.

He felt he might throw up. His eyes snapped shut as he tried to count, to breath, but it made it worse. When he opened his eyes again he saw phantoms. People bent over bodies, tears, people wrapped around one another, corpses on tapestries they’d torn from the walls. All he saw was the war, the bodies all laid across the floor, the shattered windows, the echoing of his heart in his ears.

A flicker of red in the corner of his vision snapped him out of the spiral.

Hermione waved from the doors, as she stood with the journal clutched to her chest. She beckoned him to hurry up and touched her gold watch with comic emphasis.

By the time Draco arrived at the door, she hugged him. She didn’t check first, she just snatched onto him and he realized he’d never hugged her. Or rather, she’d never hugged him. He had put his arm around her once when she’d cried, but he’d never really felt the warmth she carried. But right now he drowned in her. She burrowed into his neck and wrapped her arms tight, to drag him close. Her warm breath settled into the curve of his neck and the soft corner of her jaw brushed against his stubble.

“Thank you for the journal,” she said beside his ear. Her lip bumped his ear lobe and he thought he’d pass out. “It was a very sweet thought,” she burrowed back into him, so pleased with herself.

The sound that rattled between his lips was life or death, in competition for his mortal soul. He hadn’t sobered to the gesture quick enough, and she let him go before he’d even moved his arms. They remained stapped to his sides like he was in one of those jackets from Azkaban, the ones that stifled all your magic. When he managed to move his arms, they turned to right angles as he held the phantom of her, as if he could will her back into place with the gesture alone.

But she’d already begun towards their classroom, a flash of mischief on her face.

“We’ll be late, come on!”

Fuck, he was even worse than Weasley.

A million times worse.

Arithmancy class came and went. Draco didn’t even ingest any of the information because all he could smell was whatever Hermione used in her hair. Some perfume too, something he’d never really thought about with her. It didn’t suit her, it was cheap and heady. She would better suit something with more vanilla in the base, something sweet but more mature, less cocktail of fruits — no. No. He wasn’t about to buy her perfume. The journal was a ridiculous idea, he’s an idiot for that alone.

Perfume — no.

Unless — 

Draco didn’t recover, not between classes, not even during Potions.

She turned to smile at him and point at her portions. She had practiced, she had tried to do better this week. She cut them perfectly, she thought. But her lemongrass was always jagged as she tried to cut too many pieces at once with the wrong knife. The edges were sawed and softened from the pressure. Fine enough, but if she wanted it to be perfect, she’d have to use a sharper knife.

He could buy her a set of knives —

No.

“I appreciate your help,” she said, her face red from the steam. “I’ve learned so much about precision and potions from you and it’s only been two months.”

He shot her a tight smile.

Quiet.

Eternally quiet.

He can’t be friends with her.

Her hair sat as a knotty mess atop her head, all spun out and frizzed. She had charcoal on her cheek and a smudge on her nose. She hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down but he can’t pick the specifics of the conversation. He’d blurred, his hands distant, his eyes unfocused. Because — he’s Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, war criminal, the antithesis of this girl with a lionheart and more brains than the school combined. She’s warm and when she laughed, he laughed, because he trusted her to laugh at things that were funny.

He looked away when she looked to him, but he covered it well. He picked through his Potions kit or took a note down. He’d do anything to look busy and to spare himself direct eye contact.

And he can’t stand how he sees himself in her eyes, this fractured boy with sallow skin and bags beneath his eyes, who’s too scared to hug her and frozen over a gift he’d given. He didn’t want to care about her, because it isn’t fair on her. She has no idea what it would mean for him to care. She’s warm and soft and maternal by nature, she looked out for others like it was her lifeblood, like all she wanted to do was improve the world for those in it.

Draco’s veins pumped spite straight to his heart. He’d watch a thousand people die without blinking if it meant his family was safe.

Hermione was so clever she’d find a way out of it so that no one had to die.

She’s not the sun or something so small. She’s an entire galaxy, packed down into a tiny witch with too many words and not enough time to get through them all.

He’s a black hole, killing what good she created.

All he could taste was ash and daisies.

He can’t be friends with her.

It’s too much like something else and he’s too afraid to even think it. He was made to pull her apart with a lineage two generations back of Muggleborn murderers. It went further back, so far that they had records of it in a great fat book in their library. His family prized their killer edge and their need to accumulate. They thrived in the dark and so they sowed darkness with each generation. And with his lineage, with all the death and the spite, he was more a knife than a boy.

He had never been meant for anything less.

Hermione giggled as she watched her potion come together, a pleased clap of her hands.

And she hugged him, brief and excited.

The weight of a dozen or so pairs of eyes landed on them. And the need for her as a friend was lost to his need to keep her whole. She was meant for great things. He wished he’d said no to her. He should have. He shouldn’t have sent her daisies or hugged her as she sobbed, he shouldn’t have even pretended to be anything less than what he’d been raised to be. All he could feel was the weight of their eyes, the classroom full of people who wanted him dead but were too cowardly to do it themselves.

And Hermione was too busy, her golden Felix Felicis distilled to a vial.

By patrols that evening, after dinner, after everything, he saw her in the dark of the dungeons. She was leaned against the stonework wall with a book in hand. The dim green lanterns in the dungeon a beautiful contrast to her warm face, warm robes, warm smile.

The word ‘beautiful’ sliced down his spine like a knife. He stood straight, dead face and dead eyes.

“Where’s Rodger?”

“McGonagall wanted Avery and Rodger to do the patrols as specified,” Hermione snapped her book shut.

“Why do I never get told things,” he said, aware that it sounded petty.

“I told you in Potions,” Hermione frowned but it was too soft to be serious. “Did you listen to me at all?”

Draco shrugged, noncommittal.

“Did you have a fight with Astoria this morning?”

Draco felt like she’d punched him straight in the sternum. They began their route, the one they’d taken in silence for weeks.

“You’ve been strange all day,” she said, her voice small. As if she was afraid he’d yell at her. “I saw her with you this morning, I had thought you were — rather, that you’d broken up, but, gotten back together… I’ve never been good with that sort of stuff,” she wiggled her fingers. “Who’s dating who, you know. I catch some of it, but it gets so complicated and personal after a while.”

“We’ve never dated.” Draco’s jaw rolled, the straight line of it so sharp he felt it against his skin. 

“But you — ” Hermione’s face went red. “I had heard that you were together.”

Draco wanted to pass out. He could walk hard into a wall and fake it, or maybe just lay down. She might leave him behind and he could be spared this conversation.

“I’d understand if you wanted to date her,” Hermione said with the air of someone who did not agree. “She’s pretty enough.”

“Is she?” Draco said, apathetic.

Hermione made a strange face at him which she failed to hide. They walked the dark corridors of the dungeons, their pace slower thanks to how awful Draco felt. Each step was a further descent into black tar, from which he hoped he’d never surface.

“What did you hear?” Draco looked at her sideways.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, it’s fine,” Draco affected his best nonchalance because, at the very least, he wants to know what people have said about him.

Hermione remained red and speechless.

“What did you hear, Hermione?”

“Luna mentioned, as she’s friends with Marisa, who’s a Slytherin Seventh year — family friends… Gossip, Hogwarts, it’s very web-like, isn’t it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Hermione’s head dropped a fraction, though she smiled. She had a mirrored expression to Draco as if she wished she’d be swallowed by the floor. It was a romantic thought, to sink into the abyss together, to suffocate and be out of this gossip-ridden trap. Her lips parted and pursed in a cycle. He missed when he misunderstood her, back when he hated her on principle alone. It had been simpler when all he wanted to do was watch her writhe under a Cruciatus Curse rather than under him, period.

They rounded corners and paced hallways. He thought they’d finished their conversation until he heard her lips part, punctuated by a deep sigh.

“I think Luna misunderstood, because Astoria had said to Marisa that you’d had sex, and so it came across as dating — people usually date before that sort of thing. I didn’t mean to assume.”

Draco didn’t speak, to affirm or to dismiss. He just watched the tiles pass with his feet like faraway saucers and his legs like Quidditch goals. Everything felt so distant and out of reach, so unreal. Even worse now with Hermione bright red beside him in the dungeons, the word ‘sex’ on her lips because of him.

But it was a nightmare, twisted around so it felt like pins in his heart.

He wanted so badly to go back to the black pit, where love fell in and he felt nothing but tired.

Hermione’s mouth moved, over and over, but no words came out. She wanted to ask questions, or lecture him, but was torn between the options.

“You know, I think I’m broken,” she said after a long moment, like a laugh.

Draco pivoted to look at her, his pace thrown off.

She stopped, a half-smile on her lips as she turned to look at him. “Sorry, that sounded really morbid when I said it like that. I just mean, everyone seems to have grown up in the past two years but I feel like I’m back to First year. Just, awkward, about everything, as if…” She couldn’t finish the thought. He doubted she even knew what she meant.

“You’re not broken,” Draco said, his gaze rolled to the ceiling.

“I think I might be though.”

“What, because you don’t want to fuck Weasley?” 

He hadn’t meant to say that. Not out loud.

Draco felt a glass shatter in his brain as it tumbled like marbles through his throat and into his stomach. He expected Hermione to slap him and for their friendship to die. Which is what he wanted, so perhaps this was a good thing. He couldn’t stand to have her around, to learn to enjoy her company, to lose her. He couldn’t allow himself that. It already felt like he might die if she walked away from him, and he hated it.

But she didn’t slap him. Instead, she laughed.

She laughed so loudly it sounded like a possession through the empty halls, as it echoed and bounced through the dungeons. She stifled her laughter with the flat of her palm, her face red between her fingers and she cried and laughed and he couldn’t work out how they’d ended up on the topic.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione howled, as she smoothed her face with her hands. “I’m just so stressed about everything, and on top of it all — I just, I always thought, you just do that, when you want to, and I haven’t — wanted to.”

Draco screamed with his eyes as he stared at the floor.

“I think I’m just stressed, or, depressed, something’s wrong,” Hermione swallowed back her sobbing laughter. “You don’t want to hear this.”

“When you said you wanted to be friends, I hadn’t anticipated such a shift in topics,” Draco kept his tone dry, the corners of his lips kicked up.

The shadows of the dungeons had provided a safe space. It wasn’t as if he never spoke about sex with Theo or Blaise, Pansy or Daphne… It came up when it came up. He hadn’t sought out the conversation, but then again, he’d lost his virginity at the Yule Ball without much of a thought on the matter. Pansy had been clear about it, she’d given him a game plan, a map, she had taken care of most of it. He was expected to show up and to perform and — he had.

His brow twitched as he picked apart sex, as it had never been something he expressly sought. It just happened around him, to him, and he was so blasé about it. Until the war, then he avoided it, avoided people. And Astoria had pursued him with little margin for escape, and so he’d tried again as if it might be different, but it wasn’t.

“I sound so stupid,” Hermione laughed, her voice breathy.

“No, actually,” Draco shot her a concerned smile. He smoothed it out for a neutral expression, his brow dropped. “Are you alright?”

Hermione laughed again.

“What’s wrong?” He pressed on, his voice softer.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice crackly. “Being back at Hogwarts, it’s like none of it really happened. But people died, and I could have tried harder, or worked things out quicker, I could have done more — ”

“Don’t do that,” Draco snapped, no kindness in his voice. “I told you, don’t take on others’ problems like they’re your own.”

Hermione dropped her chin.

“What’s wrong with you, specifically you, Hermione.”

“I think,” she hesitated. “I think I made a mistake.”

Draco felt his stomach flip in five different directions. He blinked, quick and decisive, but he remained quiet.

“I shouldn’t have come back to school. I think I’m just… Avoiding the real world, being here. I should be an adult, just, go get a job, go get an apartment with Ron, do all the proper adult things — ”

“Hermione,” Draco snorted. “You’re nineteen, right?”

They turned a corner and she nodded, uncertain.

“I think coming back here, after everything that happened — that was the mature choice.” Draco strained his neck as he looked up, as he searched for words to give her some relief. “You of all people would have regretted it if you never finished schooling, if you picked up a Ministry title from your war efforts.”

“Ron thinks I should have,” she said, her voice smaller than he’d ever heard it. “That I should have become an Auror, with Harry and him.”

"That isn't something you would do, though." Draco’s eyes flashed in the dark as if he’d drawn a blade. “He’s a fucking idiot.”

Hermione shot him a nasty look.

“He is,” Draco repeated. “If he thinks Aurors are the ones out there, making a difference.”

“But they are — ”

“An Auror is a wand,” Draco rolled his eyes. “The Ministry at large is the brain and nervous system — Aurors support whoever has the highest say. They hex who they’re told to, they don’t ask questions. You’d be miserable as an Auror.”

Hermione stared at the floor, tears down her cheeks.

“You’re going to finish school and strut straight to the Ministry and take over the whole thing,” Draco said, his tone idle. “Toss Kingsley out, sit yourself down — probably start doling out prison time left and right.”

Hermione turned to look at him, a tart look on her face. She was red in her cheeks and her eyes but at least she wasn’t sobbing. They’d reached the end of a long corridor, one that had several alcoves to each side. They peeked behind curtains and watched a pair of Fifth years sprint down the corridor. Draco recognized them but let them go, his hands deep in his pockets as he watched them.

“How did you and Astoria — that is, how — ”

“Hermione,” Draco cut her off. “I’m the last person you want romantic advice from. Trust me.”

By the time they got back to their dorms, they both headed for Draco’s room. His neck ran hot until he remembered that Avery and Rodger had laid unofficial claim on the girls’ room, the pricks. She gave him a loose, sweet hug, a whispered thank you, and then she tugged off her cloak. She was too tired to really process the situation she’d put him into, but he wasn’t about to abuse the position. He watched the little Gryffindor tip-toe over to her side of the room. She’d toed her shoes off and slipped across the floorboards with little teetering steps. Her hands were clasped by her shoulders and he’d never seen such a fucking adorable thing in his life.

And he realized.

He couldn’t be friends with her.

Draco slipped into the bathroom in desperate need of a shower. The bathroom was partitioned with two sides, with a separate toilet and shower arrangement on either side. The toilets were an enclosed room, like a half-bath, while the showers were large enough for Hagrid to climb into. (He needed such thoughts right now, anything enough to make him throw up rather than jerk off, he cannot lean into that, he can’t, he won’t).

He slumped to the floor of the shower and set the water to ice cold, staring at the wall ahead of him.

He can’t be friends with her when all he wanted to do was want her.

He smacked his head back against the tiles, softly at first until he went numb. The cold water and the minor head trauma might be enough to set his course back on track. He smelled of her perfume and all he could feel was her warmth. Brown sugar, purple tobacco between soft lips, pressed against preserves in Potions, her lips against his ear, her hand on his wrist, her on her knees by the fire, expectant, obedient, eternally confused and so sweet in a clumsy way, down the darkest corridor where he’d taken Pansy a dozen times.

He went to bed cold, the strange taste of ash and daisies stuck at the back of his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Friday — November 20th, 1998.**

Hermione Granger used a blue toothbrush.

It was always neat and clean as if it’d never been used, but he knew she used it. Several times he’d walked in on her, the brush out of the corner of her mouth and a polite, pinched smile as if to apologize for being there at all. She could use magic to clean her teeth but he kept quiet. She refused to use magic in the simplest of ways, like her hair or her books. She never used magic to put her hair up and she never lightened her bag in spite of the books.

He thought she was stubborn, at first. As if she were too good for magic.

Now, he’s not so sure.

He heard her spit from behind the tiled divider. The bathroom was separated into two portions, which he was thankful for. He hadn’t seen her come out of the shower yet, though she must shower. She smelled so good, but then that was a whole other tangent and Draco had better things to do with his time than catalog Hermione’s routine. His classwork had doubled from its already painful load, and so he had to draft five essays a week and rotate focus.

He had two essays he’d gotten back with corrections and all he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and never go back to class.

“Is your family coming next month?”

Draco looked up from his bed. It was late in the evening and they’d done their obligatory patrol through the dungeons. He had been her friend for almost a week and a half as he saw no way out of the arrangement. If he said he didn’t want to be her friend, then she’d not have the room to stay in. She could go into the room with Avery and Rodger, but they’d make a fuss about it and so she’d end up on the couch or there’d be a fight. Even then, if he told her he didn’t want to be her friend, he’d be left with an empty room.

He’s not sure he can handle being alone after a week or so with her around.

“There’s the banquet, to celebrate the return to school,” Hermione appeared from the bathroom in an ugly orange t-shirt with the Chudley Cannons on it. He couldn’t have thought of anything that suited her less. But it’s long enough that it skims her shorts, as the dorms ran warm and their duvets were thick. He stared without hesitation but he wasn’t so pathetic as to see more into it than her being comfortable. He wasn’t going to be a creep — she trusted him, he assumed, and that had to mean something.

“A banquet?” Draco said, his voice thin. He can see her knees, red-splotched and bruised. She had a habit of dropping to her knees if she needed a book and she didn’t seem to care. “Here, at Hogwarts?”

“Yes Draco,” she smiled, her expression thinned around her lips and eyes. “Professor McGonagall posted about it on the bulletin board. Ex-students and families are coming up for dinner just before the Christmas holidays. Sort of like the Yule Ball but not so formal… You didn’t know?”

“No,” he ground his palms against his eyes as he thought of the bulletin board. It was rarely anything imperative and if it was, Hermione would mention it. 

“Well, you should invite your parents. It might be nice to see them, to have them around for the dinner… They did help with the repairs for the school,” she crossed her arms. He hadn’t realized she knew that, but it had been in the papers. They had put a plaque in the dungeons with their name on it, for what little prestige that offered.

“I doubt they’ll attend,” he waved a hand as he slumped back, his spine impressed upon the headboard. From this angle, Hermione looked like she might be about to jump into bed with him, rather than sneak around to sleep in the woodwork cocoon that Rodger had put up. She half-smiled, uncertain, and moved closer.

“Did you ask?” Hermione said, her voice watery.

“I’d rather they didn’t come.”

For as long as she’d stayed in this room, she kept a firm distance between them. She stayed to her side of the room and didn’t speak to him unless it was impolite not to. They didn’t gossip and lay awake talking to one another, or touch one another’s things. And then she broke the unspoken rule, as she sat on the end. Her fingers dragged over the covers, a shake to her fingers like she expected them to go straight through the fabric.

“You should still invite them.” Her hand settled on the post of his bed, short nails dug into the woodwork.

“Well, are your parents coming?”

Hermione stared at him, frozen. After a long moment she shook her head, her expression empty.

Wait, had they died?

He didn’t know. He hadn’t heard anything about them, good or bad. He’d not even really seen her parents much except for at the station, and he’d not paid attention when he’d gone this year. But she had been in Diagon Alley alone, and she’d never mentioned them as people she sent letters to. She only ever seemed to speak to Ron through the post. 

“My parents won’t be coming, no.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t — ”

“Don’t worry about it,” Hermione stood up, to walk to her side of the room.

In his mind, he rushed after her before she vanished to bed. He’d say something nice, something to reassure her, and she’d smile and blush and he’d catch her cheeks and they’d kiss, perhaps, or he’d just let her cry as she had on the balcony. He doesn’t want to kiss her, but it’s the sort of thing one might do when you care. They’d come apart and she’d look at him, awestruck and then he’d say just the right thing and she’d feel better and he’d rest assured he wasn’t a tumor in her life, out to kill her from the inside.

And then, and then — it’s nothing like that. It never is.

The reality of it was that she climbed into her bed and he heard the sharp snap of her curtains being closed. The scrape of the metal against the poles and the rustle of velvet curtains in motion, all a further point that he didn’t know Hermione well at all.

And Draco didn’t sleep that night.

He laid still in the dark.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Sunday — November 22nd, 1998.**

Hufflepuff and Gryffindor had a Quidditch match that morning. Draco didn’t even bother to go watch.

He had too much to do in the way of preparation for practice exams, as they wanted to run through sample essay questions and that involved drafted responses. He had been studious in his first few years of school before Hermione proved there was no point, that’d he’d always be second to her. And then Sixth year came around and he had nothing, less than nothing. This year, this false Seventh year, it was a chance to get good enough marks that people would have to hire him.

Because the world was out to make things twice as hard for him and he didn’t blame them. His participation in the losing side of war made his place clear. But it was better than the world that had been laid out before him, where the Dark Lord would round up Muggles and Muggleborns alike, to tear them apart for a laugh. It was never going to stop there. He wanted to tear everything apart. He would have killed everyone if given the chance.

“I’m sure Ginny would appreciate the thought,” Hermione laughed and he couldn’t look. But he knew her laugh and her voice, he never had to look to know it was her.

“That girl is fire on a broom, I tell ya,” Avery plodded past in her thick, heavy gait. She always seemed at ease, no matter how tense a situation was. He envied that, but not her lack of grace.

Draco watched them walk across the room with a slight tip of his head. His Charms essay was laid across his lap and while his Arithmancy textbooks were sprawled across the table. He didn’t look up all the way, not as Hermione turned around towards him, or as she sat on the coffee table to his right. He was sprawled across most of the couch, he gave her little space to sit. But she looked happy on the table until the happiness faltered.

“I’m sorry about the other night.” Hermione had thick red and gold streaks on her cheeks and a red nose as if the wind had sought to blush her.

“Don’t be,” Draco dismissed, his stomach lurched.

“My parents are safe. They’re just not in Britain anymore.”

“Probably for the best, given the climate last year,” Draco skimmed his Charms article, his attention still fixed to the parchment.

Hermione bunched her hands in her lap as she picked at her cuticles. Her hair was a wild mess around her head, as the winds had turned her red and her hair into tangles. She began to pick through it, to comb it with her fingers. He expected her to walk away or to do something, but she remained, a fixed point in front of the fire.

“Is there something else you need?”

“Ah, no,” Hermione said, a flicker of a smile on her face. “I suppose not.”

Draco swallowed out of reflex. He hadn’t meant to say that, not like that. He watched her go to their shared room, He read and re-read the same section of his essay, unable to find the words to explain the motion for a Caterwauling charm.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — November 25th, 1998.**

Draco didn’t think he was any good at this friendship thing. Hermione hadn’t been any more or less talkative with him, but the conversations they had remained far safer than they had been that first week. She had spoken about her relationship with Weasley and her anxieties, and now the most he got out of her was a sad smile or a withdrawn nod. Nothing had changed, not that he could tell, but she didn’t seem half as energetic as she had at the start of the month.

The exchanges were the same each time. She spoke, soft and cautious and he’d measure a response. He could blame N.E.W.T.s or he could blame a lack of interest, but neither was true.

“Are you going to go home for the holidays?” Hermione asked, her tiny pale face red in the steam. She had a dark potion laid out in front of her that looked like black velvet. It could be used to obscure one’s movements or for astronomy purposes. People would paint the walls with the substance and mimic the stars onto the walls. But this was just the base. It could become a poison or paint, it could be any number of things.

“I will,” Draco said, bone-tired from the endless stream of essays.

Hermione seemed to wilt at that, or he imagined she had. She may have just ducked for a better look at the potion.

“I haven’t seen my parents since I came to school,” he spoke, cautious. “I had expected them to visit, or to have a chance to visit them in Hogsmeade, but time hasn’t been on my side.”

“Time never is,” Hermione said in a flat voice.

“They can’t make the dinner,” he said without pause. “I mentioned it in a letter, they said they’re busy.”

“Oh,” Hermione pouted. “That’s understandable.”

Draco gave a tight-lipped smile as he wasn’t sure why she cared. It wasn’t as if she wanted to see his parents, and even if they attended, she’d avoid them. There was no way he could see Hermione and his parents in polite talks. Not that his parents hated her in any specific way, not anymore. They were just… Less themselves. And they needed time to adjust, to the world and to their actions. They had been through so much, his mother especially.

“Harry’s coming,” Hermione looked over her shoulder to him. Her gaze dropped, her lips reduced to a fine point. “And, Ron. Obviously.”

“I had thought as much,” Draco flexed a sickly smile at her as he crossed his arms on the table. “As if the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice would miss the chance to attend a dinner in his honor.”

“It’s not in his honor,” Hermione said, her voice hot. “It’s for everyone, who survived and those who didn’t. It’s a celebration of the future.”

“The future,” Draco repeated as if that would clarify what she meant.

“Yes Draco, something you should consider more,” Hermione said in that swotty voice she used when she thought he hadn’t studied enough. It was one she used to use on Potter and Weasley, so to have it directed at himself was — strange. 

“I just think it’s laughable, to be celebrating something that hasn’t happened yet,” he gave a sharp wave of his hand. “What if the future’s worse?”

“I think it’s a nice idea,” Hermione snapped her Potion kit shut, her long hair all twisted and mangled into a hair tie. “It’s about a brighter future, one where people are equal and help one another… Or, I should hope that’s what we’re all working towards,” her voice trailed off as she lost confidence.

“If more people thought the way you did, we’d have all the more reason to celebrate,” Draco stood, his arms stretched up and out as he straightened his back.

Like a hawk, he saw Snape smirk.

His blood ran hot through his face like he might curse the smarmy prick right in his great big nose.

He almost missed the way Hermione blushed, red from her cheeks to her ears. She had pulled her hair tie out, to begin ruffling the ends so that it fell more naturally.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Thursday — November 26th, 1998.**

“Hermione,” Draco said, his voice determined.

Hermione stilled her hands, which fussed over and over through her hair. She was beside him in their dorm, seated with her back to her bed. They had set up a strange study space between their beds. The two spare beds, which had been empty, had been transformed into a desk for each of them. But each desk was piled high and unusable at the moment. They had old essays from previous classmates, more books than they needed and an assortment of snacks.

But Hermione had spent the past ten minutes shoving the same strand of hair behind her ear.

Over and over and —

“Come here,” he waved a hand at her. 

She went red as if she’d been caught out. “Why?”

“If I wanted to hex you, why would I want you to come closer?” Draco said, the sarcasm thick in his voice.

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she set her essay aside. She scooted on her arse over to him though she kept a few feet away. He gestured for her to turn with a lazy flick of his fingers. She frowned so deep she looked like her miserable cat.

“This is a prestigious offer that few have been privileged to receive,” he reached out to nudge her knee and it took little effort to spin her.

She was frozen in an L-shape as if she’d been stunned. Her hands were bunched by her sides and her mouth was drawn tight.

“Am I that intimidating?” He asked by her ear, a laugh in his exhale. “Good to know.”

“It’s not that,” Hermione shook her head which shook out her hair.

Draco snatched up a quill and transfigured it into an ornate comb. It wasn’t really all that precious, of course, but he didn’t have a habit of keeping hair combs on hand. He shifted closer, his hands rested on her shoulders. “I’m going to give you a braid. Sit still.”

“What!” Hermione snorted so hard he feared she’d snotted on their homework.

“My mother taught me,” he said, his hands still on her thin shoulders. “I used to braid Pansy’s hair, it relaxed her.”

“But her hair is silky and straight.”

“I like a challenge,” he said against her ear, a gentle laugh as he withdrew his hands.

“Fine,” Hermione huffed. “Sorry, I’m such a challenge.”

“You have no idea,” Draco said as if his life was so difficult. He began to finger comb her hair out of her face and into even hanks. It really wasn’t that big a deal, to give people braids. He used to braid his father’s hair when he was a boy, as it’s just knots of different levels of decoration. It wasn’t as if it was some great gift or something permanent. It was to help her focus, as she seemed incapable of braiding her own hair correctly.

Her stiff posture softened in time as he worked. His fingers brushed against the edges of her hairline or to catch loose strands. He’d work them back into the shape of it, that same idle attention as he watched the back third of her face. And her hair wasn’t so impossible to manage, not really. It was just interested in doing its own thing, much like the girl it grew from. He worked along with the curls and swirls until the bulk of it had been tucked into a firm French braid.

He let his hand ghost over it, to make sure it sat right. His fingers settled on the back of her neck. 

That was when he realized her eyes were shut.

When he saw that little smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, a little too pleased with herself.

He tugged the braid, gently, and she squawked.

“Don’t ruin it!”

“I made it, I can destroy it,” Draco said, his voice dark.

“Oh shut up,” she giggled, and he hadn’t realized that she could giggle. Or that he’d ever heard a giggle that didn’t make his skin crawl. She pivoted on her thigh to look at him, their homework sprawled between them, her face brighter for all the freedom it now had. She ran her hand over the shape of it several times, her cheeks deep red in the darkened dorm room. She was close enough for him to smell the cheap perfume she wore, the sort of thing that Weasley would have bought for her, no consideration for her style…

“Hermione,” he said, and he wished he hadn’t.

“Draco,” she said, and he realized they had a pattern of banter.

Draco reached out to catch part of her cowlick, to smooth it into the rest of her hair. “Are you sure you want to be friends with me?”

Hermione’s expression faltered as if she didn’t know what to say.

“This dinner,” he spoke in longer sounds than he liked, as he tip-toed around his point. “I won’t be attending.”

“You have to,” she said, soft gawk in her wide eyes and open mouth.

“It’s about the future, about being better people,” he touched her cheek with such a soft brush that he wasn’t sure he’d really touched her at all. He imagined it, how she leaned into it. “It’s for those who fought in the War, not the Death Eaters who survived through wealth.”

Hermione’s throat clicked as she moved to argue with him, but silence snapped back into place. She stared at him in the dim light of their dorm, her bottom lip pressed outward.

“I’m not going, Hermione,” he repeated, his voice heavy.

“I want you to go,” she said, her brows straight across bright eyes.

“Why?” Draco smiled though there was nothing but misery in it. “You have Potter and Weasley. You’ll be busy too, you’re an icon for people, Hermione. People look to you as an example, as someone to admire.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is.” Draco didn’t leave space for her to argue. “If you want a brighter future for yourself, you don’t drag shadows with you.”

“You aren’t a shadow,” Hermione rolled her eyes as if he were being melodramatic.

Draco leaned against his bed, his attention focused down on his hands. They were splayed in his lap, as it gave him something to focus on that wasn’t her or her warmth. She was so red in the dark, warm, and he wished he could find the words to make her understand. It was for her, all for her — if he was selfish, he’d have her in every way he could, all her time would become him, and that’s the problem. He can’t be selfish with someone who isn’t his.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Draco’s gaze snapped to her in the dim light, eyes wide as he might scream.

“I’m sorry if I did.” Hermione had shrunk down, her head dropped and her shoulders pointed by her ears.

“Don’t apologize to me,” Draco shook his head, his teeth set in a sharp line. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’ve been clingy though, or, I don’t know, overbearing, with work…” She gestured at their homework as if it were somehow the fault of the parchment. “I’ve never been very good at… At friends, in general, I suppose.” She scooted back a fraction which gave him room to think. But it isn’t a logical thing to explain to her, there is no reason for him to pull back. Not because of her at least. It was more than he was a detriment to her with how his past encompassed him. He couldn’t speak to her at the banquet but he’d have to watch her laugh and dance with Weasley.

And he can’t be mad at her for it.

It’s his own fault.

“You aren’t clingy,” Draco shook his head. “You’re perfect.”

“Hardly,” Hermione scoffed.

“Look, let’s not stress on it tonight,” Draco rubbed his face with the flats of his palms. “I think I’m just tired.”

“So you will go? To the banquet, that is.”

“You really want me to attend?” Draco asked, his voice morose.

“I would love for you to attend,” Hermione said, an edge to her enunciation.

“You owe me a dance then,” he said, his arms crossed.

Hermione turned red around the edges. He didn’t think about why. She busied herself with her half-finished Defense Against the Dark Arts essay, one about the resistances of different creatures to different strains of magic. The braid meant that she fussed with her hair less so instead she played with her lips. She tugged at them or dipped her finger between them to tap at her front teeth.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Friday — December 4th, 1998.**

“You have to take Astoria.”

Draco blinked at Daphne.

“She’s been miserable since you two broke up.”

“We broke up?”

Daphne kicked his shin so hard he saw stars. When his vision returned he saw the Slytherin common-room, laden with shadows and emerald wallpaper. He was across from Pansy and Daphne, who had their Charms essays on their laps. He had come down under the pretense of assisting them with their homework to be ambushed with the pair, and Astoria.

Astoria had left to get her homework for Charms, which left this awkward window open.

If he had to paint a time-line, he’d say they ‘broke up’ in late October, and she had pursued him throughout November. He hadn’t paid attention, more out of his frantic descent into friendship with Hermione Granger than anything else. Astoria was fine, sweet, easy — she remained that as she returned, now in a pretty blouse and a skirt.

She had gone to change.

Draco squinted at her through the shadows and she took that for approval. She smiled and sat down next to him, on the arm of his chair, her hands folded in her lap.

“Are you excited for the banquet?” She said, a light in her tone.

Draco settled back into the armchair so he could have a better look at her. She remained acceptable, with soft curves and a sense of polish about her. But he didn’t care, per say, he still didn’t care. He hadn’t cared in the bookshop late October and he still didn’t care now as she pivoted to focus back at him.

“Well, Draco?” Astoria smiled her pretty practiced smile.

“I wouldn’t say I’m excited at the prospect,” Draco didn’t know where to put his hands, so he let his arms fall over the chair’s edges. His hands flopped and she snatched one up to hold.

“Not even a little excited?”

“Well,” Draco smirked at the dance he was owed. “There may be something worthwhile there.”

“So you’ll go? With me?” Astoria cracked. She had wanted him to ask her, but when it became clear he wouldn’t, she reverted to the same bold girl she’d been the first time they’d kissed.

Draco felt the ground slip beneath his feet as he saw Daphne and Pansy across from him, death in their eyes. “It’d be my pleasure.”

He tasted his regret the second she swooped down to kiss him.

It was as if he thrived in his own misery.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Saturday — December 5th, 1998.**

“Malfoy.”

Draco looked up from his Arithmancy textbook. He had set himself up in the Library, between the books dedicated to the subject. Hermione had gone to Hogsmeade for the day but so has Astoria, and he had learned his lesson from his last trip to that damn bookstore. He didn’t want to see Hermione all over Weasley, nor did he want to avoid Astoria — no, this was the best place for him. But his logic fell apart as he stared down Ginny Weasley, with her long red hair in plaits and her face more freckles than pale skin.

“Can I help you?”

“Why are you all over Hermione?”

Draco’s face crumpled as he stared at her as if she had said a string of jumbled words.

Ginny sat down across from him, her arms folded in front of her. “You watch her every morning at breakfast — I told her about it and she said, oh no, you’re exaggerating… But I’m not.”

“I’m not sure if you’re familiar with sitting across the hall from someone,” Draco gestured at their arrangement. He was seated across from her, as she’d taken the seat opposite him. They had to look at one another; it wasn’t much of a choice on his part. It just happened. “She often sits down after me, so if anything, she’s sitting down to look at me.”

“So the study sessions, the shared dorm room, the journal set, the quill, the braid — ” Ginny popped fingers up, one at a time. “The cigarette, the patrols… The books,” she dropped her hands so they were flat on the table.

Draco’s expression flickered like an arrow knocked on a bowstring, strained backward.

“She talks about you a lot.”

Draco made a strange sound from the back of his throat as he searched for the words. But he felt his point had been made for himself, as Ginny had said — she talks about him.

A lot.

“I just think it’s fucked up for you to play nice to her like you care when you don’t.”

“What?” Draco said as if it were a curse word. “I do care about her; we’re friends.”

“What’s the plan?” Ginny’s tone dripped with indifference like it was a mockery. “Trick her into liking you so you can mock her for it?”

“She doesn’t like me.”

Ginny’s gaze sharpened, her fingers interlocked in front of her. A googly-eyed blond appeared from behind a shelf, a serene smile on her lips.

“Hi Draco,” she said, her voice tender.

“Luna,” he said out of reflex. She had been too sweet to him her entire time at his mansion. He had seen to it that she was fed and given time to bathe, but he couldn’t look at her. She had been his prisoner, and she looked at him like he was an old friend.

“Are you done tricking him into a confession?” Luna asked, her lazy smile directed at Ginny.

“Sh — Luna, no,” Ginny flapped her hands.

Draco’s gaze launched at Ginny with such force that she stumbled to her feet.

“Hey Lou, you wanna go to Hogsmeade?” Ginny stepped towards the exit.

“Oh, of course, I wanted to get some sugar quills,” Luna blinked at Ginny before she looked back to Draco. “The daisies were very sweet; a little sad though, to say you’ll never tell.”

Ginny flexed a confused smile at Luna, though they rushed away with interlocked fingers. Ginny ran ahead while Luna trailed like a balloon on a string, bobbing and weaving with lofty amusement.

Draco’s fingers shook as he pulled his quill out of its pot. Neither of them had any idea what was going on, of course. They misunderstood the situation to the highest degree. Hermione spoke about him, perhaps in passing, but she always spoke about everything. So, she’d told Ginny, it wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t mean anything. She was going to this awful banquet with Weasley and she had gone to Hogsmeade that day to see Weasley.

By lunch, Draco returned to the dorms through the small door that had been forged between the Library and the Head dorms.

And he saw Hermione, curled up on the couch and crying.

Draco stood still for a long moment before he dumped his bag and outer robe onto the armchair closest to the Library door. He walked over to her, to take a seat on the coffee table opposite her. She was curled up into a little shrimp shape, her face obscured. She didn’t look comfortable, not even a little.

“What’s wrong?”

Hermione made a soft shriek of a sound as she smacked her face as if that would remove the tears or the redness. Once she realized it was Draco, she crumbled, her arms around his neck and her face in his throat.

And he didn’t freeze this time.

He wrapped his arms around her, a laundry list of torture spells and devices he could secure within a few hours. If he went to Hogsmeade, he could probably find whoever had brought her to this state. He could make it look like an accident, or at the very least, make sure it didn’t lead back to her. He’d paint the walls with their blood if he felt it necessary. He’d do many unspeakable things to those who made her cry.

She cried too much, he decided. It wasn’t her fault per se, but he needed to find a way to catch her out before she cried. He was sick of it, this blanket misery that enveloped her. She should be able to exist and thrive and smile and laugh. He’d done her hair in a braid that morning at her request, and he’d watched her go in a pretty blue dress and a thick trench coat. Now, she was crumpled, her face bright red and her dress misery blue.

He pulled back to smooth her hair from her face, the wet spots of her face slicked with loose hair. He thumbed her tears away and watched her simmer down, as she found words. But she sat across from him, her hands clutched tight to her chest and her bottom lip a plush curve. He kept his hands on her biceps, his thumbs brushed small circles against her skin. She was so much softer than she looked.

“Ron proposed.”

Draco felt like he’d fallen forward into a pool of freezing cold water.

“He did it — with, with a big speech, but, it was rather like he pinched it from a book, which is still nice, but it didn’t really seem all that accurate to us, more… And, oh, he had these fireworks, George helped him make them, and… And he — there was a band,” she sounded angry.

“Congratulations, I suppose.”

“I said no.”

“Oh.”

Hermione hiccuped, her tiny fists clutched to her chest. “We’ve been dating since May, it’s December — that’s, what…” She took in a deep breath, her chest expanded with it. “Seven months, but really only… four months and the war just ended, so really, that’s even less, it’s… We’ve been on… Two dates… It’s not really…” She breathed deeply through her nose, her hands still scrunched.

“Two dates?” Draco repeated as if he’d misheard her.

“Once to Hogsmeade, in October, and today.”

“If you left it sobbing, it’s not much of a date,” Draco said, his voice dry. “I’m sorry, but, did he never take you to dinner? Or, I don’t know, a play? A zoo?”

Hermione shrugged. “He’d mention it, but it was more like, oh, let’s go get lunch, but it wasn’t very different from when we’d go out as friends. Sometimes Harry came along — ”

“Honestly, no wonder you never wanted to fuck him,” Draco hissed through his teeth. “That’s not a date.”

“I told you, I’m broken,” Hermione sunk back into the couch. Her hands unfurled and a tiny gold ring sat in her palm, with several rubies inlaid into it. “He still gave me the ring, said I should think about it.” She turned it over between her fingers, her expression scrunched.

Draco remained seated across from her, the thick wide gap of black in his chest all the darker now. He couldn’t deny it now, not while he faced her, the ring between her fingers and a soft look of confusion on her face.

“Ginny came to speak with me today, about you — about us, rather.”

Hermione snapped her gaze up at him like he’d called her the worst word he could think of.

“She seems to think you like me. Or that I’m trying to make you like me.”

Hermione shrank back into the couch, her face splayed with worry. Her lips pouted into a small spot on her face and she looked as if she wanted to be anywhere else.

Draco searched the floor in front of him with his elbows on his knees. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to add, or if this was the right time. But then again, he didn’t want to be friends with her. He wanted more, so much more, and it wasn’t fair on her for him to slink and prowl behind her with such intentions. He was a creep and a prick, and he needed to have her say both to his face. He needed her to shove him away and move out of their shared room because he’s ruined it.

Completely ruined it.

“When I was younger,” Draco began, his gaze fixed onto the floor beside his foot. “My grandfather had a string of Granians. They varied, some big, some small, a few were bright grey, some dark… But one was albino — pure white. And my grandfather worked with that Granian for years and years, but it never wanted to fly, not on command. It fought him terribly, he ended up tying it down in the back corner of one stable, convinced that in time, it’d learn it’s place.”

Hermione shifted across from him, her brow furrowed as she tried to pick the point of his speech.

“Eventually my grandfather passed away, and so my mother took on the responsibility. She also favored the albino Granian. She loved it, honestly, but it hated her. Hated everyone on the estate. She wanted so badly for it to work with her, for it to learn it’s place. But it didn’t seem to matter. It was too — too hurt, from its time with my grandfather. And it had spent so much of its life trying to be free. The rest of the string loved my mother, anyone of them would come to her, to be with her, all she had to do was call for them. Then one day my mother had enough; she cut the albino Granian free, completely.”

“And in its freedom it learned to trust her?” Hermione said, her voice cautious.

“It flew away.” Draco strained his throat as he looked to her, his hands clasped between his wide knees. “Two weeks later, the Dark Lord turned up. The Granians that remained were used as food for his snakes or tortured for fun. He made my mother summon them each time, and they came each time. They had no idea. They loved her that much.”

Hermione stared at him as if she were waiting for a happy ending.

“Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you love something, it may never love you back.” He scratched at his jawline as he stood, his hands dug into his pockets. “Sometimes it’s for the best.”

Draco left Hermione in the lounge to go change into his personal Quidditch attire. He walked back out to see her, the ring centered in her palm. She looked up to see him leave.

In a few minutes, he heard the gentle clack of her heels on the stonework floor.

She was still dressed for her date to Hogsmeade. He did his best not to think about it, about the ring she had or the red tint to her cheeks. Her arm slipped out to catch his, to stop him, and she hugged him. Gently, fully, her warmth pressed against the cold shape of him. She lingered in the hug for a moment and it was somehow worse this way. She felt so precious he might die if she let go, but die happy. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck and breathed her in, that awful perfume thick in his nostrils and her, just her, beneath that.

His broom dropped sideways and clattered to the floor as he settled his grip around her, both arms, and drowned in her. He could bite her throat or kiss her temple, he could do any number of things, but he didn’t. He gave her this moment, this silent moment of affection, as she was so small and needed so much more than she was given.

“I do like you, you know,” she said against his ear. The same way she had by the Great Hall, though he isn’t as shocked as he had been then.

He just felt hot.

“You tolerate me, there’s a difference,” he said, a mirrored angle by her ear. He didn’t miss how she shook at that, a flicker of shadow across his gaze as he relished that about her. She was so tightly wound. One day she might pop. He only hoped he was there for it.

She kissed his cheek as she drew back, so quick he hadn’t even realized at first.

“What was that, Granger?” He said with a faint growl in his tone.

“A thank you,” she said with a slight shrug of her shoulder.

“For?”

“Being my friend.”

“For now,” he said, like a threat and a promise mixed into one.


	8. Chapter 8

**Friday — December 11th, 1998.**

“Wait, wait for me!”

Draco stood by the door, his fingers clumsy against his silver cuff link. He looked to the bathroom, to where he’d seen Hermione disappear into hours prior. He had assumed she’d sneaked out when he hadn’t been paying attention, but now he realized she’d been in there half the day. And then he saw her, a sliver of her face as she peeked around the door at him.

“Can you tell me if I look okay? I trust you to be honest.”

Draco smirked around a laugh, his brow arched as he waited for her to emerge.

She’s beautiful day to day, with her hair in various braids now that she trusted him to braid her hair. She looked even better with it loose and wild around her face but that wasn’t practical. That became something saved for that hour or so before bed, where she’d shake it all out and crawl into bed. He’s rather fond of it, how it’s become something no one else really gets to see — not the same way that he does, twirled around her fingers as she read or pinched between her lips.

But now it draped like curtains down her face and skimmed down her back. There was a faint curl towards the ends, so not pin-straight, but straighter than usual. It was so much longer this way, past her waist, and she must be as surprised as he is. He took her in like his penance, a knife to his gut in how like and unlike herself she was. She had a periwinkle dress that didn’t bother to cover her shoulders, drooped sideways with a gentle curve to show off the taut skin across her breastbone. She’s not curvy, not really, but he’s never been inclined to chase curves.

He isn’t sure where to look, not with the way the dress hit the floor or how it fell from her slim hips. Or how her hands fussed with the waistline as if she could make it sit better. But it was already perfect, much like everything Hermione did. She looked between his face and herself in a loose cycle, over and over.

“Oh, you hate it,” she huffed, her hands flat against her dress. She smoothed her hands, over and over, but it didn’t change how the dress fell.

“You look fine Granger.”

“Fine?” She said, a shallow huff between her lips.

“Perfectly fine.” He realized then she had make-up as it blended with her natural complexion enough to be disguised. But her lips looked fuller from the gloss and she had a light to her cheekbones.

“They’ll be arriving soon, let’s go,” she rushed over to grab her bag.

Draco idled, his hands in his pockets as he watched her. She never sat still, not even as she read or patrolled. She fidgeted or prodded or poked, she always had to be doing something with her hands. She was lighting trapped in a girl, and she was anything except for fine. But the glint of gold between her fingers made him pause, to turn away from her. He heard her approach, a small beaded purse on her arm and her hair like a short cloak behind her.

By virtue of poor luck, they met Avery and Rodger. The pair were arm in arm though Draco could see how ill-fitted Rodger’s dress robes were. They bagged around the shoulders and chest, and the lines of it only emphasized how scrawny he was. He leveled a swift look at Avery who had a bubblegum pink dress on with sparkles that glittered around the hems.

“Black, how dull,” Avery whined at Draco.

He had a slim set of dress robes with tailored slacks that mirrored Muggle suits. The case could be made that Muggle suits stole their designs from dress robes. He didn’t linger on it, not as the group began towards the Great Hall below.

Christmas trees had been peppered throughout the halls, with enchanted snow settled above them. It would vanish in time with no wetness, so Draco let it settle onto his shoulders and head with absent amusement. He didn’t much like snow, but he didn’t hold affection for any weather aside from overcast and mild. Avery and Rodger giggled and shoved one another ahead of them, though Rodger almost flew over the banister after one hearty shove.

“Did you ask someone?” Hermione said, her voice airy.

“Ask them what?” Draco looked at her from the corner of his eye.

“To the banquet,” she waved a hand ahead of her. A thin layer of snow had settled onto her head and clung to her lashes. It drew out the black of her lashes and the brown of her eyes.

“I didn’t ask someone,” Draco waited a long moment before he looked at Hermione again.

“Would you want to go, together?”

“We’re already going there together,” Draco said with a pinched expression, his smile too wide for his face.

“That’s settled then,” Hermione said with a stern nod. “I was meant to attend with Ron, but given I… said no, to him, I don’t think that invitation still stands. He hadn’t responded to my owls, asking if he was to attend.”

“Are you asking me out?” Draco said, his voice thin.

“If I was asking you on a date, I’d ask you on a date.” Hermione pivoted her head, a smile across her lips like a challenge. “I was just thinking, if you haven’t asked someone, and I haven’t got a date — ”

“Draco!”

Draco looked around like a bucket of cold water had been tipped over him. Astoria slunk over with a dainty wave. She had been standing beside his parents, who looked as if they were about to go on trial with how tense they looked. She slipped her hands into his and he watched Avery and Rodger proceed to McGonagall. The hall was packed with all sorts of faces, some familiar, some new. But the one he wanted to see least of all was now inches from him, her nose brushed against his.

“I’ve been waiting for ages for you,” she pecked him and settled back, her hands interlocked with his. Her gaze slid sideways to watch Hermione, confusion baked into Astoria’s pout. “You look nice, Hermione.”

Hermione gave a weak smile before she sped off after Avery and Rodger.

“Yeah, thanks, I look nice too,” Astoria called after Hermione, a small laugh in her voice. “No manners, honestly.”

Draco walked after Astoria to greet his parents, his father then his mother. He lingered against his mother for longer, he felt so much like a child again as she held him close. He’d never liked hugs as a boy, not unless he got something out of them. But he’d learned to love them as he’d gotten older.

Despite what he had said to Hermione, he'd never mentioned the dinner to them. He hadn't invited them or told them not to attend. He had just assumed they'd not be invited, so left it alone. But to see them here showed that he'd both underestimated and overestimated the school. He didn't question them, on why they were here, and they didn't ask why he'd withheld the invitation.

Astoria babbled by his ear, while his mother looked bored.

The Great Hall was decorated with dozens of tiny tables, all with name cards and arrangements in the center of each table. They varied between the houses, some had badgers while others had snakes. They were made of crystalline glass which would melt down and reform into the next animal. A lion, a snake, an eagle, and a badger. In the far corner of the hall, he could see the Weasleys, who had a table twice as large as any other table. Potter was with them, Lovegood, Longbottom…

As if the whole heart of the Order of the Phoenix had cornered themselves off, to hide within the edges of the party. And people rotated back there on repeat, like a funnel. Draco kept to the opposite corner he had been seated in with his parents, along with Pansy and Theo’s families. They were by the door at a small table. Their sculpture stayed a snake. Perhaps the enchantment was broken here. Or perhaps it was intentional.

The lights began to glow in the hall as the night settled. Draco listened with absent attention as McGonagall gave a speech about perseverance, then Harry gave one about remembering those who gave their lives for the future. Several other people climbed to the front, those who lost family members or those who just had a small piece to say about the war. He didn’t pay attention, he couldn’t, it felt too much like being faced with his crimes.

But then he saw her at the front of the room, her hands shaking and her long hair thrown over her shoulders. As she raised her wand to emphasize her voice, a golden ring flashed on her finger.

“Hello — I’m Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Head Girl, and Muggleborn witch,” she began as if no one knew who she was. He adjusted his posture in the dark corner his family had been tucked into. He hadn’t known she would be giving a speech tonight. She hadn’t mentioned it. “When I was little, I always wanted to make friends. It was the one thing I was never very good at. I knew how to count and to read and write but people — people never really made sense to me.”

The crowd laughed as if she could say anything and they’d laugh with her.

“When I found out I was a witch, I was excited, as I thought this was it, this was what was wrong with me. And I did my best to try to fit into the Wizarding world. I learned all the spells and studied all the textbooks. I thought if I learned enough, I could make people like me. I wanted to make my parents proud and to make myself fit just right into this new world. In time, I learned that there isn’t such a difference between the Magical World and the Muggle world. I still struggled to make friends, I still never felt like I understood people.”

Hermione looked around as if she’d lost her point. “But I’ve learned that it isn’t about what you know, academically. It’s about how you listen to others. The knowledge of a dozen Charms spells doesn’t matter when it comes to people. And when you listen, you don’t just listen to the parts that you want to hear. You listen to all of them, their fears and their pain, and you begin to understand them. Empathy happens when you have that disconnect, between personal experiences and what you see in them. Friendship is how you handle those differences and that distance.”

“That’s the difference between hearing and listening; the difference between leaning into fear and with empathy. We saw many things happen in the past because of fear. I hope that we can move forward with a willingness to learn and to empathize, to identify our fear and let ourselves feel it… But then put it aside in the interest of learning, of making a better future for those little girls who have more books than friends. I’ve made many friends at this school, and I’m sure that sentiment is true for all of you.”

The crowd clapped and Draco remained motionless as he stared after her, as if he wanted her to explain herself in better detail.

Draco didn’t eat through the meals, his appetite laid abandoned back in the Entrance Hall. His father and Pansy’s talked about the shape of the Ministry and some things they wished to see change, but it was too soft for Draco to pick out the details. Astoria and Pansy were laughing about Hermione’s speech and he ignored them pointedly. He didn’t have to listen to catch the words, pathetic and embarrassing in mixed tones. 

“Draco,” his mother said, her hands wrapped around his. “I have something to ask.”

“Ask,” he said, a fond smile on his lips.

“You seemed friendly with that Hermione girl,” her expression faltered. She remembered her from the drawing-room, though it was the least of her witnessed atrocities.

“We’re both Heads,” he said, his voice distant.

“I’ve been wanting to do a scholarship for Muggleborn children,” she smoothed Draco’s sleeve as she spoke. Her hands shook less now, which was some small peace of mind. “As a means to rehabilitate our image. And, because it’d be nice to help where we can...”

“Mh,” Draco’s smile widened as he waited for the punchline.

“The Malfoy name on its own won’t endear the scholarship — I’d rather it be named after a Muggleborn.”

Draco felt his heart hit the back of his throat. “You want me to ask Granger?”

“It’d be a thousand Galleons a child, say, five children,” she reached out to shift Draco’s hair, a few strands knocked out of place. “Deductible, of course, so it works in our favor as much as theirs.”

“Draco, let’s dance!” Astoria perked as the lights dimmed. She hadn’t spoken to him much, not for more than a few seconds at a time. She enjoyed being around him, he thought, but more when he was silent. She never seemed happier when he spoke, not unless it matched up with her very specific demands.

“I’m talking with my mother,” he said, his gaze did not shift from Narcissa.

“Go,” she smiled, though Draco could see the venom beneath her pale skin. “Make sure you enjoy yourself, dear.” She said that to Astoria.

This did not bode well for Astoria.

“I will, c’mon,” Astoria said.

The guests all shifted at once, to make space for the tables to move. The tables flipped and rolled onto one another so they made intricate lattices of white wood. The cloths that sat over them merged into wide curtains that hung across the latices like they were meant to be curtains all along. The glass statues flew into the air like a chandelier and snow began to fall. The light jumped through the glass and spun rainbows around, light and bright in the hall.

A band strutted onto the lofted stone section of the hall where the teachers sat. They had their instruments hovered above them, though the charm ceased and they fell into place. No sound came from them as they landed, and the crowd watched with polite interest. And then the music started, and the tension broke.

It was joyful. Bright. 

All Draco could think of was how there’d been rows of bodies in there several months ago. They were dancing on graves.

“Draco,” Astoria breathed like a threat. 

He took her hand and they approached the spread dance floor. It wasn’t everyone from the school here, though a good chunk had arrived. He hadn’t seen anyone above Fourth year, at a guess. He felt out of body as he held Astoria’s hand and waist in practiced poise. She had taken dance lessons as much as he had, so they moved like sharp boats through still water. 

Draco hadn’t looked at Hermione much, not since she’d stumbled away in the Entrance Hall, or for her proper speech at the front of the hall. He would have liked to have been at a table with her, laughing, enjoying himself, but that wasn’t an option. She stood on the far side of the room with Luna and Ginny. The rest of their group had spun out onto the floor.

A turn; the three girls, stood in the far corner.

A turn; Potter, Weasley, and Longbottom approached the girls.

A turn; he lost them. The girls, the boys, it’s a mess of faces and fine fabrics.

His parents sat in the dark corner, his mother meant for the spotlight. He didn’t care what his father did, so long as he kept his stupid mouth shut until the night was over. He loved both his parents but his father — he just needed to loosen his grip on the Malfoy name so that maybe Draco would have a chance in their world.

“You haven’t said I looked nice yet.”

“Haven’t I.”

Astoria grabbed his chin to turn his face. He’d not looked at her as they danced, he hadn’t thought to. But he looked down at her now and she’s pretty. She’s always pretty, always been pretty, but he doesn’t find her attractive. Not in the sense of being attracted to her. But he can sense that she’s the sort of girl that people would be jealous of, and she’s sweet enough.

“You look nice,” he said, his voice low.

Astoria frowned through a blush; like she was unhappy that she felt happy with him.

They danced for a few songs until Astoria slipped away to get herself a drink. He let her go, didn’t think to follow her though she’d gestured for him too. Instead, he skirted the crowd and found himself faced with Luna Lovegood, who was beside a stern Neville Longbottom.

“Luna,” Draco said his voice tense.

“Draco,” she smiled.

“Dance?” He jerked his head at the floor, his eyes narrowed at her.

“I don’t really like to dance… Not when it’s so formal,” Luna took a large sip through a sparkly purple silly straw that was shaped like a flower.

“She’s with me, Malfoy — ”

“It’s a dance, Longbottom,” Draco held his hand out to Luna, who took it with a smile. She had a massive cocktail, though he… He didn’t think it was an alcoholic drink, but it had a giant straw that he’d not seen anywhere else at the party. She had brought it herself or transfigured it. He didn’t want to ask.

“Oh, don’t worry, he likes someone else,” Luna smiled at Neville as she tugged Draco to the dance floor. She hurried back to slip her massive glass into Neville’s hand, who looked somewhere between angry and confused. “I’ll be back!”

“How did you know?” Draco said, his voice quiet by her ear.

“About?” Luna began to do a dance that he couldn’t quantify with words. She bunched her arms close to her chest and wiggled her hips. Her eyes were closed and she had a kitten-like pleasantness to her face like she was alone in her element.

“The daisies.”

“Well, let’s see,” Luna’s arms sprawled out so far that she almost slapped McGonagall. Draco caught her arms to bring her close, and she popped her eyes open. “You come from a wealthy family — flower arrangements and meanings are important, aren’t they? For magical reasons as much as unspoken words. People send flowers for good reason.”

Draco tongued a few answers but didn’t know what to settle on.

“You’re smart Draco, or you are about certain things,” she twisted her wrists around to catch his hands so she could wiggle his arms back and forth. He felt like a child, dancing with a drunk family member against his will. “Daisies are sent for many things, but one of the meanings that struck me as strange was the one about keeping secrets. If it was Ron, then why would he want to keep a secret? And daisies mean new beginnings, too.”

“But — ”

“There’s a softness in your eyes when you look at her,” Luna’s voice broke between the waves of noise, no change in her tone but it struck him differently. “Like you might get hurt around her, and you’d care if you did. You don’t seem to care much about anything unless you’re with her.”

“How often do you watch me, Luna?” Draco said with a heavy layer of distaste.

“Often enough,” Luna’s voice grew quiet as she reached out to touch his cheek. “I don’t think there’s real darkness inside you… I think you just need to open your eyes.”

The song shifted, something slower, and he watched Luna spin away, back to Neville. He caught her with eager hands and they vanished between the guests. His chest was tight, too tight to be in here. He hadn’t seen Hermione again, not since her speech. He forced himself to keep his head high, his shoulders back, an air of confidence pressed into him as he rushed out of the Great Hall. He walked, no specific place in mind, not until he reached the broken statue that sat in the courtyard outside the Entrance Hall.

Fake snow clung to him as he stood, his arms crossed as he read over the names, the names he’d not thought about, the names he refused to acknowledge.

Tonks, Lupin, Weasley, Creevey…

He read the list, over and over, until he could remember each of their faces, even a little. Some he had no idea of, no clue who they had been, but he’d learn them. He’d find every single person who died in the war and he’d — he’d make it right. Somehow. He would send their families an apology, some money, whatever it took, he’d empty his inheritance if he thought it might fix it. But it wouldn’t. He stood in front of the broken statue, tears down his cheeks and his chest so tight he couldn’t breathe.

He thought he was sobbing out loud for a second, but he couldn’t be.

The sobs were distant, quiet, and so awfully familiar.

Draco stuck to the shadows and crept after them, his silver hair and silver eyes the only light in the dark. Hermione was hunched over in the back corner of one of the covered corridors, with exposed stonework and dead leaves all over. She was on a small stone bench that was too crumbled for more than one person to sit on, and she’d taken it for herself. The thick snow piled up on the banisters and he felt a deep pang in his chest. Anger. Pure anger.

“Why are you out here?” He said, no patience.

“Oh, as if you care,” Hermione exhaled with a sharp glare. Her makeup hadn’t moved but her hair had turned back to curls. It looked better this way.

Draco approached and she remained seated on the broken stonework bench.

“Why did you lie?” Hermione’s voice crackled around the edges. She didn’t look at him now, she had her gaze fixed to a space beyond his shoulder.

Draco stared at her, not sure what to say.

“I asked if you’d asked anyone, and you said you hadn’t.”

“Astoria asked me,” Draco said, though it was semantics. “I hadn’t realized you’d have wanted to attend with me.”

“You should have just said you had someone already.”

“I can’t be the reason you’re out here crying,” Draco shifted closer, to kneel in front of her. 

Hermione didn’t look at him.

Draco’s jaw squared as he knelt in front of her, his gaze fixed on her through the dark. He gathered her hands up into his and saw the ring. It was gold but far slimmer. It had no rubies, nothing really, nothing except for her initials and a date.

“I found this,” Hermione said, her voice hollow. “My parents got it for me, for when I was meant to graduate.”

_H.J.G - 30/06/1998 - To the brightest star in our skies._

Draco frowned at it, then at her. “You didn’t tell them you had to put off your studies..? I’m sure they would have understood — ”

Hermione snatched her hand back and cried louder than before. She bundled herself up, her arms tight around her and her head dropped low. She had never cried so much before, he didn’t think. Not when they were growing up, or perhaps he’d just been spared this side of her. Out of unfortunate habit, he gathered her to his chest and crouched beside her, so the angle was less awkward. She buried her face into his neck and sobbed as if she’d found out someone had died.

Ten minutes or so passed this way, his arms around her with her face against his throat. He let her cry without words, as she worked through whatever it was… He would ask, he would pry it from her, but he didn’t know what to say or to ask.

“My parents,” she said, muffled by his collar. “I sent them away, to protect them. They should be here — I should have found a better way to protect them.”

“You said they’re alive, we could find them,” he said, his hand smoothed through her hair.

“I can’t — ” Hermione took a shaky breath, her teeth gritted. “I… I wiped their memories, Draco. I tore myself out of their memories, they’re in Australia, they’re happy, they have a life there now, they… I’m sure they’re happier there, without me.”

“How do you know they’re happier without you?” Draco frowned at her.

“All I did was cause them stress, or… I went home, for holidays, but I didn’t write to them often enough, they must… They hated me, they must have — ” 

“Hermione,” Draco cut her off without hesitation. “There isn’t a person alive who’s worse for knowing you.”

“I wiped their memories, Draco,” Hermione repeated as if he’d missed the point. “I ruined their lives. I made them drop everything, and… I’m so selfish.”

“Remember the story, about the Granians?” Draco said, his lips ghosted against her temple. “Sometimes it’s better to let go of that which you love because it’d be more selfish to cling to it.”

Hermione’s fingers dug into his shoulders as she pulled him closer.

He tipped his head to watch her face. But she burrowed into him, eager to hide her face. They remained like that for a long while, her face by his neck and his arms wrapped tight around her. He toyed with the nape of her neck, his hand splayed beneath the bulk of her hair. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. He should have asked her to the banquet, but the proposal hadn’t meant she’d broken up with Weasley.

He had just assumed that was still an arrangement she intended to honor, and he kept his distance. He was there for her as much as he could stand, but he didn’t want to ruin this. He didn’t want to push her so hard she spun out of his grasp. He’d stay in her orbit and do his best impression of someone good, someone worth her time. He would disguise his black hole of a heart with something like a star, something bright and warm that hadn’t collapsed upon itself.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” Hermione whispered into the crook of his neck.

Draco dropped back to his knees before her, dirt clung to the black of his slacks as he stared up at her. Her makeup remained untouched by the same deep red crowded her warm brown eyes. He stared at her through the dark of the courtyard, her tears frosted on the black of her mascara. Her expression was scrunched around the edges as if she were trying to keep herself from breaking all over again.

Hermione reached out to touch his throat. When she drew her hand back, the wet black of her mascara followed. She rubbed her hand against his neck, gentle but decisive.

“We should go back inside,” Hermione said, her mouth scrunched into a smaller shape.

“Yes, I’m sure Weasley is worried sick about you,” Draco said, his tone snide.

Hermione gave him a weak smile. They walked back towards the Great Hall in silence, his gaze fixed ahead of him. He saw her hands flash over her face, for what little use that would be. She could glamour the redness away but it would be there, beneath the illusion. He gestured for her to go ahead of him and he let her go. She walked back over to her corner with the Weasleys and he stuck to his corner, beside his parents. The party had thinned since he’d last seen it, as it seemed to be winding down.

Lucius shot him a dark look which Draco ignored. He was distracted by Hermione, who had gone to stand with Ginny and Luna again. She turned and bounced on the spot — and saw him, across the hall. He watched her rush through the crowd with a determined look on her face, as if she might kill him.

“Hello Hermione,” Lucius greeted with every syllable like nails along a chalkboard.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hermione said back with thinly veiled rage. “A pleasure as always.”

“You look lovely,” Narcissa waved her hands at Hermione as if to intercept the malice.

“No, no, you look — you look amazing,” Hermione stared at Draco for help. “I actually wanted to have a dance with Draco.”

Lucius opened his mouth and Narcissa swooped in, her arms locked around her husband’s bicep. “Of course, dear.”

Hermione stared Draco down as she might stab him and he’d welcome it. She instead reached out for his hand, her face red between the shimmers of her glamour charm.

“You must come by the estate over the holidays,” Narcissa added, a sweet smile on her lips. “I insist.”

“Mother,” Draco snapped, his teeth cut in a fine line.

“I’d love to,” Hermione said, a pleasant warmth in her voice that he doubted was real. He didn’t want her at his house, didn’t want to see her in the halls or watch her relive the last trip she’d made there. But she had his hand in hers as they walked towards the dance floor — and he isn’t quite sure if it’s the first time they’d held hands, but it was the first time he’d felt her fingers slot between his like they were meant to be there.

She slowed to turn once they reached the dance floor, her hair curled and the low shoulders of her dress slipped further down her arms. She adjusted their grip and stood like a bonfire, warm and proud, bright in the dim shadows of the night. The lighting above had lowered and the moon hung outside through the stained glass windows. It was all mechanical and methodical up until this point until he had her warm and close in the dark. He kept to his patterns and watched with a distance to his eyes.

But he can’t do that now.

Not as she stared up at him with a determined brightness behind her eyes, her hand in his while the other clutched to his shoulder.

It isn’t as smooth as it was with Astoria. He lost his count once or twice, as she was out of time. She wasn’t trained, but she remembered some of her training from the Yule Ball. He thought of Krum, of how struck with disbelief he had been to see him take a Muggleborn to a dance. As if it were acceptable as if she were worth the loss of social status. He saw people as transactions, out to benefit him or cost him. It had been a miserable way to live once he realized how impermanent it was.

He had nothing now, nothing except for this bright warm spot deep in his chest where the shadows reigned.

“Did you tell your mother to invite me to visit?”

“Merlin, no,” Draco laughed, though he kept it leashed so he’d not bark in her face.

Hermione smiled, though she didn’t seem pleased.

“You don’t have to come.”

“Would you want me to visit?”

“No,” Draco gave her a weak smile. “I’d get too attached to seeing you there, I’d have to have you move in.”

Hermione laughed like he was joking.

“I already see so much of you in our dorm,” he added, his voice light. “Perhaps I will need you to visit — I’ll be so lonely without you snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” Hermione blushed so brightly that the glamour charm didn’t save her. They rocked and swirled through the crowd, the steps imprecise. He didn’t mind, didn’t really care, he just liked seeing her so happy. 

“I don’t like people, Hermione. It’s messy and full of problems. Feelings, and stress and all that rot,” Draco scanned the crowd, as if in search of something specific. His gaze fell back to her face, how bright and expectant she looked between the swirls of silk. “You’ve ruined that for me.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed at him through the shadows, her bright brown eyes dimmed.

The lights began to brighten as a path towards the exit. Draco came apart from Hermione, though not before he pressed a lone kiss to her knuckles. He saw Astoria through the dark, though she rushed for the exit without a word edgewise. He exhaled with relief, at having survived the night. He remained beside Hermione as the room began to shift and waver with people saying their farewells. He saw Weasley, finally, who looked ready to commit a murder.

He winked at the boy, a mile-wide smirk on his lips as he looked to Hermione. “I’ll need to see my parents off.”

“Of course,” she swallowed visibly. “I’ll meet you by the stairs.”

Draco breezed over to his parents. It was a brief farewell, no mention of Hermione or the dance. He was just pleased that his parents had survived the event without any public ridicule. The tables remained stacked along the walls and the thick glass chandelier continued to sparkle. A thin layer of snow began to form across the floor, as people left. By the time Draco walked out, he left deep black marks in the form of wet stone, where his touch ruined the snow.

He saw the Weasleys bustle out of the Entrance Hall door, which left Hermione and Ginny behind. They linked up with a few Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, who moved as a mass. Draco let them pass, his throat tight.

Hermione paused for him to catch up, but they waited for a few seconds. The distance between their pairing and the group ahead was measurable. He ignored how Luna had pivoted to wave, and how Ginny snatched the girl’s hand to rush her along.

There was a weight on his chest as they walked. He couldn’t put it into words, but he felt like things had gone too well for him. Things didn’t usually work out in his favor, they were messy and misshapen. He had once always gotten what he wanted but that pattern had broken in the past few years. He expected to be beaten and bleeding, crying his eyes out — but this peace he found as he walked alongside Hermione back to their shared dorm felt somehow worse.


	9. Chapter 9

**Saturday — December 12th, 1998.**

Draco slept though he hadn’t wanted to. For once he wanted to lay awake and make shapes in the darkness, but he was tired and it was too much to remain awake. He had worried about the banquet on repeat, day after day, so for it to have gone well… He was relieved, to say the least.

And then the door slammed open.

He remained a light sleeper, so he was on his feet in seconds. He reacted out of instinct, onto his feet and between the door and Hermione’s bed before he had sight of who had entered. He was faced with Rodger, who had his arms full of his trunk and clothes, his face wet with tears and a miserable pout. His fear-wide eyes focused down on Draco, who kept the wand lofted at him even after he’d recognized him.

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked from her bed, her voice groggy and thick with sleep.

Draco closed the gap between himself and Rodger, who remained terrified of the boy. He scrabbled for his wand but he had his hands full. He dumped his things onto the floor, his clothes, his shoes, his pet raven perched on his head.

“Avery,” Rodger said as he wiped his eyes. “The daft bitch tried it with one of the Eighth years who came back, I — I’m not staying in there with her, I refuse.”

“You can’t bounce between dorms at your leisure,” Draco stepped closer to the boy, his head held high. He was taller than Rodger by several inches and the withered, tragic look in the boy’s face made that distance even wider.

“No, it’s… It’s fine,” Hermione looked around the room, her face red. Her hair was wide and swirled as it always was when she woke up. She scooted out of bed, to which Draco moved to stand in front of her as if he could obscure her state of undress from Rodger. She had flannel pajamas on but the buttons had popped and the slimline of her chest showed. He kept his back to her, his arm against her bedpost as she righted herself.

Rodger hadn’t looked their way, for fear of Draco as much as for Hermione’s sake.

“I’ll um…” Hermione scrubbed her eyes with her palms, her voice was smaller. “I can move back in then, you can… You can be back in here, if that’s what you want,” Hermione crossed her arms, her little puffy sleepy face so sweet he wanted to catch her cheeks and kiss her but he can’t, he’s too full of anger and spite and wanted to see Rodger topple off the balcony outside.

“Well, Draco, you’re going away for the holidays,” Rodger said, his voice thin. “I’ll just take your spot, so Hermione doesn’t have to make another move.”

“I — suppose,” Hermione looked to Draco, but he didn’t look at her.

“Are you joking, Corner?” Draco moved over to the boy, to shove him in the shoulder. He stumbled backward into the door, which was the only reason he stayed on his feet. “You don’t get to fuck one of the Head Girls then try to move on to the next at your leisure.”

“I’m not trying anything — ” Rodger said, so earnest that Draco almost believed him.

“You kick her out of her own dorm then chase her over here?” Draco shoved him again, to which Rodger stood straighter.

“Draco,” Hermione said her voice tense. “Stop, don’t turn this into a fight.”

Draco hesitated, his wand held to his right. He stared Rodger down, who had found his own wand at this point. They stared one another down through the early morning shadows. Rodger wasn’t a particularly intimidating boy, but he was bound to know some nasty spells. Nothing worse than what Draco knew, but he didn’t want to have Hermione see the things he’d learned since last year.

“Rather rich, Malfoy, you trying to play protective over her as if your family didn’t try to kill her,” Rodger sniped with a know-it-all voice.

Hermione wormed her way between them, her back to Rodger as she held her hands up at him. She stared at him, a look of upset behind her eyes, tension across her shoulders. Her lips parted as if she were waiting for her chance to talk him down.

As if he were the threat.

Something in him snapped.

Draco turned and in a few short spells, he had his things packed into his trunk. He snatched up his clothes that he’d laid out the night before, trim slacks and a black shirt, along with a thicker black coat. He was dressed in seconds, his teeth brushed, and he saw her out of the corner of his eye. She hovered, perhaps she spoke, but he couldn’t hear her. Instead, he was focused on the look she had given him, that fear-laden face as he stepped in to defend her.

As if she didn’t see what he was doing. She didn’t get it.

“Draco,” she said, her voice wobbly and distant.

“Sod off,” he snapped, red all along his neck and cheeks. And she did, and he wanted to set their whole dorm on fire. He didn’t linger on their matched desks, the ones he’d helped her transfigure. He didn’t linger on the little pantry they’d filled with sweets over time, or their bulletin board that she’d pinned their schedules to. He shrank his truck down to a briefcase and set off, out of the tower, out of the school. 

And then he was alone.

Completely alone.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

The Malfoy family had several properties around England, some in Bulgaria and in France. They had one in Hogsmeade which was attuned to his Manor, to make it easier to travel home. His mother would often stay there if she had business in Hogsmeade or if she wanted to shop without a trip home. It also served a base of operations for Death Eaters during each war and was laden with more deaths than Draco knew of.

He watched his feet crunch through the thick snow and all he wanted to do was go back.

He could go back to apologize, to explain that he had wanted to protect what they had and to protect her from Corner. He didn’t know if Rodger knew how correct he had been. Maybe people had told him about the Malfoys, or what had happened in the past. He didn’t really care. Or, he did, but he cared more about how Hermione looked at him as if he were a beast on a threadbare leash. His stomach turned over itself, round and round, his hand clasped against his collarbone as he walked.

By the time he reached his family home in Hogsmeade, he’d thrown up twice. He hadn’t eaten so it was bile, but he just felt — bad. Just, bad, rotten, as if his organs had turned to ash. He shoved his way into the cottage, which was magically expanded on the inside. It was all dark wood and emerald, with a wide fireplace and two stories. He didn’t linger on the decor, not as he made a beeline for the fireplace. Through virtue of the family’s connection and blood, they could travel between their homes without special permission. 

And so he took himself home, to the Manor he had once felt warmed by. But all he felt was miserable as he greeted Tripley and Bops, who took his coat and his briefcase. He scrubbed his face with his hands to find that he’d been crying. He muttered several curse words beneath his breath before he stormed through to his room to collapse onto his bed.

He’d be away for two weeks. He’d return the last Sunday of the month, which left him more time than he liked.

He awoke at lunchtime to find his mother bent over his bed, her hands clasped between her thighs. She took to the edge of the bed to hug him, to smooth his hair and babble about how nice it was to have him home. She wasn’t so shaken or frail, not as she had been when he’d left. She had gotten better in his absence. She hadn’t needed him. But he needed her. He hugged his mother for as long as she’d allow, which felt decadent. He missed the fragile shape of her, as the lone person in this world, he would ruin cities for.

“How was your evening, pet?” She asked, her fingers carded through his hair to make it sit better.

“Much as you saw it,” he said into her shoulder before he slumped back onto his bed.

“I don’t like that Astoria girl,” she said, decisive. “She speaks too much. And she speaks in such a dismissive way… That is my area of expertise.”

Draco smirked at his mother, as she acted nonchalantly.

“We’ll be having a small dinner, just a few days before Christmas,” Narcissa reached out to grab his hand. “You should invite Hermione, so I may ask her about the scholarship.”

“Ah…” Draco narrowed his eyes at the canopy above his bed.

“Draco.”

“I’m not sure — ”

“Draco,” she repeated, her tone more threatening than before.

“Is there no one else you’d want to ask?”

“She gave a pretty speech last night, the crowd ate her up. To invite her to be a figurehead for this venture is an easy way to appeal to the change of sensibilities.”

“But have you changed?”

Narcissa narrowed her gaze at her son, who remained flat on his bed. “In what sense?”

“Blood purity, the belief in pureblood over all else.”

Narcissa stroked his hand, her gaze fixed on the window that led out towards the enchanted hedge maze. There was no way to get lost in it if you knew what you were looking for. But if you wanted to get lost in it, the maze would oblige. If it hated you, then you’d never get out. They’d had to rescue several guests from within it while they’d left others for their own amusement.

“Did you ever believe in that?”

“I believed that I was better than everyone else,” Narcissa rolled her gaze to Draco. “Which remains true.”

“Mother,” Draco snorted.

Narcissa’s gaze bounced around the room, her mouth reduced to a small point on her face. She let out a sigh, heavy and soft. “Things must change for us to remain in this world. We are already so cut off from what remains of our community… To act cruelly out of principle will see us divided. You will have no future.”

“I already have no future,” Draco stretched his back, his hands tucked behind his head. He hadn’t expected his mother to smack his stomach, which made him curl up upon himself.

“You do have a future,” Narcissa snapped. “Don’t discredit the work I’ve invested in making that true.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“You don’t need eyes to carry on our legacy, remember that,” Narcissa said with a cruel twist to her voice. She reached out to pinch his nose and flick his chin as his father often did to him. She stood from the bed, her hands smoothed over her dress from where it had ridden up. “Don’t spend all your time miserable in your room.”

“Yes mother,” he said, a drawl to his tone.

As he watched her go, he wished he’d asked her to stay. When his mother was around, he was able to ignore the way he’d left Hogwarts. His stomach turned to knots as he shoved himself off of his bed, to change into a different set of clothes. He had better Quidditch gear here, and he needed to do something, anything, to distract himself from the weight he’d formed upon himself. In a manner of minutes he was changed and down the stairs, his broom over his shoulder.

“Mister,” Tripley sang as she Apparated in front of him. He tripped on her and they tumbled a few steps. “Sorry! Sorry!”

“Merlin, Tripley — ” Draco had caught himself on a console table, his broom splayed across the floor.

“Sorry, sorry!”

“What?”

“I’m sorry!”

“No, what — what do you want?” he repeated, as to clarify his point.

“To say hello, and um…” She dug a letter out of her small doily-dress, one with hand-drawn flowers and curly handwriting.

“Send it to my room,” Draco dismissed, red across his neck and cheeks. He snatched up his broom and rushed for the foyer. He passed his father who didn’t react beyond an eyebrow raise. He didn’t wait, couldn’t wait, he just wanted to fly, just for a little while. And so he flew until the night arrived, a deep blue sky speckled with pinholes of light. He wove between the trees and through the chimneys, all around the estate. He passed the newly purchased Granians, who stomped and whinnied at him, as if jealous of his freedom.

But then his feet hit the ground and he felt ill again.

Draco jogged up the stairs to his bedroom. He ignored the greetings from the portraits and the questions about school. Some portraits had stopped moving in the past few years, as if afraid they’d be torn apart or tortured. A few paintings had been replaced, and their damaged frames were tucked into the attic. By the time Draco arrived in his room, he felt like he might explode.

He couldn’t read the letter. That was it.

It could be terrible. It could be a long list of all the ways she was disappointed in him, in how he’d stormed off and been so childish. Or it could be a letter about how she got it, that she’d picked through his careful confession to realize that he liked her, but she didn’t feel the same way. Or perhaps it was a confession, that she and Rodger had developed feelings for one another and that they would be sharing the dorm and that he shouldn’t bother to come back.

Even worse, it could be good.

A confession, that she liked him too, that it was a mistake and that she missed him and wished he was with her.

It was better not to know.

Draco dumped his Quidditch gear onto the floor of his bathroom as he slung himself into his shower. The bathroom was all cream and white with silver faucets. The double vanity stood as excess, as it was only him. The wide mirrors with ornate silver frames commented on him, on how tired he looked and how he needed a haircut. He ignored it, all of it, as he closed his eyes and submerged himself into the water so hot that his skin felt like it might fall off in slim chunks.

He remained in the shower for as long as he could stand. He missed dinner, though neither of his parents seemed to mind. A meal was sent up to him on a silver platter, with a spread of foods, chicken, pork, steak, it was excessive. He smirked at the spread as he snatched up a bread roll, to slump onto his emerald settee in his silk pajamas.

He didn’t want to read the letter, and so he wouldn’t.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Thursday — December 17th, 1998**

The holidays proceeded much as they always did. Draco focused on the homework he’d been assigned in the break, so as to give himself time to rewrite or review it if he needed to. He read and flew in alternated patterns and, if asked, he attended tea with his mother. People would visit, old family friends or acquaintances, and he’d attend. He’d laugh and smile and flatter as needed, or serve as a buffer between his mother and those she couldn’t stand. He avoided his father and his father repaid the distance in kind.

Until he didn’t.

Draco had been summoned to his father’s study, which was the darkest room in the house. Draco had always admired it as a boy, with the dark hawthorn wood bookshelves and the wide, ornate desk that always had impressive papers sprawled across it. Several dragon heads were set upon the walls, stuffed and ferocious. He had always thought it was such a wicked room, that he’d love to have a room such as this — but now it felt like a claustrophobic testament to the war, with the notes pinned to the walls of all the people they had been crossed by or crossed themselves.

And his father, slimmer and dark-circled beneath his eyes. He still looked refined and well-polished, but the Dark Arts took their toll regardless of your genetics. You could be the most beautiful person in the world, the Dark Arts would have it’s way with you just the same.

“How is school, Draco?”

“Fine,” Draco said, seated in front of his father’s desk, his long legs angled to avoid the wooden back of it.

“Just fine?”

“Excellent,” Draco snatched up a silver paperweight in the shape of a snake skull. He played with it between his hands, throwing it back and forth, examining the teeth of it.

“Good,” Lucius said, his voice a thin purr. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“But?”

Lucius smiled wide, his elbows set on the edge of the table, his fingers interlocked. “But what, Draco?”

“What do you want, is my question,” Draco said as he tossed the skull back and forth.

“Must a father want something of his son?”

“No,” Draco swallowed hard as he sat straighter, his brow arched high on his forehead. “But you always want something of me.”

“Well, isn’t that natural, for a father to expect his son to pursue the best choices, to ensure his future is as bright as possible?”

“One would think,” Draco caught the snake skull in his left hand his sleeve dipped to flash the faded Dark Mark. “But you’ve had a habit of making my future as dark as possible.”

Lucius’s lips twitched at the corners.

“So, speak.”

“All this attitude,” Lucius exhaled. “I raised you better than this, I would hope.”

“You didn’t.”

Lucius’s gaze sharpened at him, and all Draco can see is himself. His eyes, his brow, his hair, it’s his future, in this dim, dark room surrounded by skulls and betrayal. The quiet settled between them and for a brief second, Draco thought his father might have actually asked how things were to be nice. As if he cared what his son was up to, as if he gave a fuck for the sake of being a good father.

“I have a request for you, Draco.”

“Which is,” Draco drawled.

“Your mother has had — a rather stupid idea, truth be told. It hurts me to say it,” Lucius gestured loosely at Draco. “I often agree with your mother. She is a clever woman, part of why I love her.”

“The scholarship,” Draco said, to cut to the quick.

“Ah, so she has mentioned it to you,” Lucius dipped his head, his chin against his interlocked fingers. “She thinks it will give our family some boon in the form of public opinion. But it shows weakness and inconsistency. We cannot flip several months after the war. It’s a poor choice for us. It will make us seem sympathetic to Mudbloods.”

Draco felt his throat tighten.

“That Granger girl, the one you complained about every year you came home from school…” Lucius trailed off, his attention lofted around the room. It snapped back to Draco’s like knives, a duel served between their gaze. “If we allow her to stand as the representation of this union, of the Malfoys and Mudbloods, why, she’d be a target.”

“A target,” Draco repeated as if that would clarify the point.

“There are so many people out there who hate her already, so to see her as an icon of — well, to see her reducing the Malfoy name to a Mudblood lifeline, the girl would be killed in a week. I know, I’ve heard whispers about it. But your mother, I cannot… She will not waver.”

“Are you threatening Hermione?” Draco asked, his eyes out of focus.

“Threatening? No,” Lucius laughed like it was funny. Like he hadn’t tried to kill her several times. “I’m promising you, this isn’t the idyllic step forward your mother thinks it will be.”

Draco felt the shape of the skull between his fingers as he gripped it tight. It would leave marks on his palm, the shape of the fangs dug into his flesh.

“If you care about her half as much as you appeared to at the dinner last night, you will be wise to listen to me.” Lucius adjusted his posture, his index finger, and thumb framed against his cheek. “I hold no ill-will towards the girl. She’s irrelevant to me, personally, and if you should wish to pursue her, that is your choice. But your attention and your pedigree shed light on her. Sometimes it is better to stay in the dark.”

The study loomed over him, the too-tall bookshelves stacked with leather books. Some were made from human flesh, with the pages thinly flayed pieces of skin with blood for ink. This room had been so malevolent as a child, a dark place that reeked of maturity and malice. He had so wanted to have this office for himself.

Now, he wanted to burn this place down too.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Saturday — December 19th, 1998.**

“Tripley, please, I can take care of my own robes,” Draco smacked away Tripley’s hands, which fussed on repeat with his attire.

Tripley mimicked his words in her tiny, squeaky voice and he smirked.

“Are you looking to get smacked?”

Tripley’s large ears popped up, her tiny green face red through the dark. Her piercings glittered, six total. Each represented three years of service, which stood as a status symbol. She had been an elf with them since he was a baby — she had been hired to tend to his mother during the pregnancy, then to take care of him. None of the elves had been confident with children, but Tripley had an airy, patient quality to her.

“Has mother explained to you why we’re going to Diagon Alley?”

“No Mister,” Tripley said with a heavy sigh. “She’s being so secretive’s.”

“Then it isn’t family,” Draco concluded. He fixed the lapels of his slim blazer. He trended in the same outfits, black on black, with slim lines and pockets dedicated to containing his wand. They were enchanted of course, to negative any accidental spell casts. He didn’t want to lose a nipple to a hex while out to coffee. He chuckled to himself, at least at ease since his tumultuous exit last week. He’d decided he didn’t care if Hermione was upset or not, or if she started dating Rodger.

Whatever, really.

Who cared.

Not him.

He avoided eye contact with the red letter on his desk, the one with hand-drawn flowers and curly writing. He hadn’t opened it yet, he decided he may never open it. It was better to not know, so he could construct his own narrative. He used the time it took to get downstairs to fidget with his buttons. His mother stood in the foyer, her hair curled and her dress pressed. She was as gorgeous as she always was, and looked no different to the photos that he’d seen of her when she’d first had him.

“Lovely of you to finally get down here,” Narcissa drawled with a wave of her hand. 

Draco’s top two buttons did themselves up and he gagged. He undid them, to scowl at her.

“You look messy, do them up, please.”

“Mother,” he whined.

“Son,” she countered, her sarcasm thick. “Keep them done.”

Draco rebuttoned them, a thick pout on his face. He moved to gather his heavy outdoor coat from the closet just to the side of the foyer, as it was snowing outside.

“We’re late,” she ticked her tongue against her teeth as she extended her arm. As he took it they vanished to Diagon Alley, where he followed her in rapid clip. She hadn’t told him much of anything except that they’d be attending a lunch in Diagon Alley, and he obliged. The streets were packed with people carting gifts, thick scarves and large overcoats. Draco avoided eye contact while he watched his mother, who moved with the familiar grace she had exuded pre-war. He was so proud of her, to see her back to herself after so many shaken months.

He wished he had been enough to help, but his absence seemed to have done more for her than his presence. His chest ached at the thought, that he was the reason she was so sick to begin with.

“Hermione, I’m so sorry, Draco was dragging his feet all morning.”

“It’s no problem, Narcissa.”

Draco stared over his mother’s head at Hermione who had a thick red scarf with a matching beanie, her cheeks pink in the cold and her cloak so thick she looked like a circle. She had thick gloves on too, and he wanted to pick her apart for clues, for some way to detect what had happened after he left.

She didn’t look at him.

“I won’t take too much of your time,” Narcissa waved Hermione towards the cafe, so the three of them could sit inside. They moved towards the fireplace, where a group had just left. Hermione began to clear the table like she was a house elf and he let her, not sure what to do or what to say.

Narcissa ran through the shape of her idea, the scholarship, the thing that his father had warned him to stop from happening. He scrunched his fist against his temple and watched them talk, not able to pick out the words in the busy cafe. But he had heard his mother describe it well enough, and Hermione looked so much happier. She looked excited, in truth, her eyes wide and her lips stretched apart. They laughed together and waved their hands, and he isn’t sure what to make of this.

This friendship between his mother and Hermione.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Hermione said, her hands knotted in her lap.

“And you’ll accept? Having it named in your honor?”

Hermione turned red around the corners, her eyes averted.

“You should,” Draco said, his voice thin.

Hermione looked at him as if she was in search of something. But she didn’t seem to find it, not as she looked back to Narcissa.

“We’ll have a dinner to announce it… I wanted to have a New Years party, perhaps, but I’m not sure if I can get you out of school for that,” Narcissa babbled through her hostess talk, her smile more wrinkled than he recalled.

“I suppose we can ask,” Draco said, a half-there smile on his lips as he looked at Hermione.

She didn’t look at him. 

His mother got up with a polite gesture to the rest room, which he couldn’t stop her from doing. He felt so uncomfortable, as if he had done something wrong and not realized. He was alone with Hermione in this warm, small cafe with so much firewood and red lights. She fussed with a thick chunk of her hair, her hair loose and wild from beneath her beanie.

“I should teach you to braid,” he said, a thin smile on his lips.

“You got my letter, didn’t you?”

Draco swallowed visibly. “Ah, yes.”

“And?”

“I haven’t had a chance to read it, in truth. Been busy, family matters,” Draco shrugged as he picked at his sleeve, at some fur that had come off the couch.

Hermione stared at him through the firelight. Something switched behind her eyes, from anxious to miserable. “I thought you’d be different, you know. All that concern over Ron not replying to my letters — at least he read them, even if he didn’t respond.”

“Pardon?” Draco said with thinned eyes.

“Forget it.” Hermione smiled through the shadows though she shook her head. “Don’t read it. Don’t worry. Sorry,” she laughed, a cruel sound, and dropped her head. “I should go.”

And he watched her gather her bag and her coat, to rug herself up and rush for the door. He followed after her without hesitation, his longer strides more effective than her short, sharp ones. But she Apparated as his hand moved to close around her and he grabbed thin air. He returned to the cafe, cold in his chest and his cheeks. His mother sat, confused and wounded, her arms crossed over her chest.

“What did you do?” Narcissa whined.

“She had to go.”

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

_Dear Draco,_

_I’ve told you twice that I like you, so consider this the third time I will say it. The first time I said it, I don’t think either of us realized I had said it. The second time I said it, I’d kissed you on the cheek and you didn’t seem to notice. I don’t know if you feel the same way, I don’t think that you do, and I’ve come to accept that. But I feel as though I should give you an honest confession so that we may be able to retain the friendship we’ve developed._

_You’ve been so nice to me since we started patrols together. I see how you smile at me during Potions, and how you try to put me on edge by leaning in close. So I think on some level you know that I like you, but you use it to make fun of me. You play with my hair and you read the books I gave you and you generally humor me. For that, I appreciate you. But then you told me about the Granians, about how no matter how much you love something, it may not love you back._

_I think I understand. And, in truth, it’s not worth ruining our friendship over. I’m sorry for the encounter with Rodger. I should have agreed with you, that he can’t flip-flop between dorms and tell me to move, or force himself to move in with me. I didn’t want that for myself, and I’ve told him to sleep on the couch as it’s his own fault. That’s what I had to do, and besides, it’s my room and I rather like it. I like what we have, whatever it is._

_I told Ron I can't be with him at the banquet. That's why I was crying outside. I had told him I didn't want to be with him, and then I saw you dancing with Astoria. And I understand. She's pretty and she's from a family more like your own. By all accounts, I'm being selfish. So I went outside because I shouldn't exist to undermine your happiness. But I'm so glad we got to dance. But I'm even happier when it's just us, reading, or comparing essays._

_So this is my confession. I enjoy your company and how sharp you can be. You’re clever and concise, you’re well-groomed and handsome. It’s annoying that you’re handsome, I will say, as you make even the most awful expression and I still find myself thinking you’re handsome. But I think I’ve realized that you’re just nice to your friends, and I’m your friend. We’re just friends, as we’ve said time and again._

_But sometimes when I look up at you through the dark in the dungeons and you smirk down at me, I don't very much think I can be just friends with you._

_Not just friends, at least._

_Kind regards, Hermione_


	10. Chapter 10

**Saturday — December 23th, 1998.**

Draco laid on the floor of his bedroom, so beyond tears that he was blank. He stared at the ceiling with distant attention, the thin parchment with dense, curly letters written out like an obituary. He had written her forty-five letters and not had the mental fortitude to send even one. Not even an owl, a single little piece of parchment, not a ‘sorry I’m a prick’… Nothing. He couldn’t. There weren’t enough words to capture it, nothing sat right in his head and it looked even worse on the parchment.

They laid on the desk in the corner of his room, some angrier, others softer. Several expressed his frustration with her, about why she would be so stupid as to communicate her feelings through a letter when she had him at the banquet, at the balcony, in Potions, on patrols. She had him, had him in every conceivable way, and she had used a letter after an argument to thrust her feelings onto him. And then he’d feel terrible and instead write about how beautiful her look of concentration was, or how affectionate he felt when she looked at him with her sleepy little face just before bed, or when she just woke up. How he loved to watch her smoke, which turned into something far more elicit than he ever thought she should read.

The rest were apologies.

Deep apologies, for everything that he had done in their years together. He apologized for how he had hexed her teeth and called her names. For all the times he had mimicked her voice or her posture. For all the times he had thrown snow at her, for all the times he had cursed her books or hexed her in the hallways, everything, everything, and he couldn’t say he was sorry enough. There would never be enough words to say he was sorry, never enough to capture the absolute poison he had been in his youth.

The poison that he remained, bottled into the shape of a stupid boy, stupider than her. He had missed her long looks and the way she blushed around him. Or how she’d watch him each morning or how she’d catch his arm to feel what muscles he had left from his fanatic time on the Quidditch pitch. How she’d angled her head back to watch him on the dance floor, her thin glamour charm not enough to cover her red cheeks and red eyes. All he saw around her was red, thick on his tongue and down his throat.

He wanted to drown in her, monochrome stained red, red, deeply red.

And now he saw red, the letter held to the side with her Gryffindor seal and hand-drawn flowers. He scraped his hair back over his head, dress robes laid out beside him across his settee. There would be a dinner tonight, for Hermione to attend in the interest of the scholarship for Muggleborn children. She was going to bring a guest with her, for her own peace of mind, and Draco didn’t really care. He figured in his absence she had frolicked off to Weasley and he didn’t blame her.

She had agreed to come, his mother had warned him.

He had to attend, his mother had threatened him.

“Mister,” Tripley said as she landed a few inches from his head. “Are you going to get ready?”

“Must I?”

“I can say’s you’re sick,” she said, her voice trailed off. “But the lady’s very excited for’s this and if you’s don’t attend… Master-Mister Malfoy… I can’t stop’s him, you know.”

Draco felt sick. He shoved himself off the floor, his face dry and raw. He had cried enough, he was over it, honestly, completely over it. He scrubbed his face with the flats of his hands and hissed a deep sigh.

Tripley waddled over to the desk, to touch the letters. She picked several up, a frown on her face.

“Deal with them, will you?” He cracked his neck side to side.

Tripley gave a singular nod and clicked her fingers. They vanished from the desk and gave a curtsy before she vanished.

It took around twenty minutes for Draco to be ready. He was dressed soon enough, but ready? No. That took two shots of brandy he’d stolen from their stores. He wasn’t a happy drunk, not by nature. But it stilled his tongue and softened his features, so he’d at least look bored and withdrawn instead of gutted beyond words. He wore much the same dress robes as always, slim lines and black. They had silver cuff links that were small stars.

He worked his hand across his neck as he walked down through the mansion, towards the foyer. He had worn a red tie, which made him feel further out of body than he usually did. It was a deep red, like blood.

Elves darted back and forth, some he hardly recognized. They had plates and table cloths and a large number of bottles of wine. Several had silver serving plates on long sticks, so they could dart around the party and hand out horderves. He groaned as he saw several pairs downstairs though none that stood out to him. It was Pansy’s parents, a few pairs from the Ministry, the sort of folks that privately agreed with the Dark Lord but were too anxious to be outward about it.

By the time he reached the ground floor, he switched to a pleasant host. He smiled and shook hands, and did his best impression of functional. He was excellent at it as he perused the crowd. He could almost pretend this was to be the same as any other night, where he’d not have to stress about Hermione Fucking Granger every two seconds like she were a wand against his temple. His parents lingered by the door to greet each pair that arrived.

His father was where he had learned to pretend, to be agreeable and charming on the outside while you rotted on the inside. He had tried to stop his mother’s plan for this, he didn’t want this scholarship. And yet he smiled and laughed with those who arrived — people Draco didn’t recognize, but they had a Muggle sense about them in their clothes. He watched with cautious attention as each pair arrived until there were ten or so.

And then she arrived, her arm interlocked with Potter.

And Draco didn’t know what to do.

There was a shake in her hands, he saw it in seconds. She had wide eyes and a locked jaw smile like she wanted to be anywhere else. She and Potter met his mother with polite hand shakes and smiles and he felt himself sink back into the shadows. He hadn’t been speaking to anyone, rather, he was stood on the side with a glass of white wine and a distant look as the alcohol soothed his sharp edges.

And he can’t help but stare at her, as she peered around the crowd, this sad little crinkle to her brows and her lips.

Draco swallowed another mouthful of wine, as quick as he could stomach.

She saw him, she must have. But she and Potter remained on the other side of the room like he was an infection and he didn’t blame them. He kept his posture straight out of trained necessity, this wilting sense of dread. He had thought she’d arrive and he’d sprint over to her, to gather her into his arms and kiss her until she got it, to show her that words were well and good but that they didn’t need words, they just needed to —

To what?

Draco took another long sip.

He’s such a fucking idiot. He should have read her letter. He had watched her wait, day after day. He had watched her watch the owls, for how excited she was to receive a response. He had done that to her. She had spent a week watching for an owl, aware of how much it meant for her to receive letters. He had watched her watch those owls and he had struck her straight in the chest like he wanted her to hurt.

_“I just think it’s fucked up for you to play nice to her like you care when you don’t. Trick her into liking you so you can mock her for it?”_

Draco finished his wine before they moved to the lounge that had been spread apart, for some light entrees and open discussion. They’d transition to dinner then perhaps some more socializing if the guests didn’t deign it necessary to kill one another. The group formed together to follow Narcissa and Lucius, and Draco can’t help but default to the spot just behind them.

The crowd was largely older, though several couples had brought their older children. No one was younger than sixteen, while some were closer to Draco’s age.

He noticed this because one girl with hair like champagne and moss eyes sidled up to him, this coy quality to her like he hadn’t noticed her skip a few steps to be close to him. She spoke, said something about how nice he looked, or how nice the house looked. But he missed the specifics, so he smiled a weak smile at her and she blushed.

And he wanted more wine.

The lounge had a wide white mantle over a roaring fire, with Christmas trim around everything. Draco had forgotten it was Christmas, too wrapped up in the tragedy he called his social skills. He stood in the back corner beside the Christmas tree, his expression dead as he stared out the window at the maze. It was frosted white along the edges, bright green hedges sprawled out as far as the eye could see. He didn’t make an effort to socialize, but people rotated around to speak with him. His parents were busy, laughing, enjoying themselves.

And he’d field questions, of family acquaintances and of Ministry workers who wanted his father to like them.

Until Potter — Harry — came around, red wine in hand a look on his face that made Draco stand a little straighter. He had the advantage of height, but Harry didn’t need to be tall. He was tanner than when Draco had last seen him, more alive. Like he was flourishing in this new world he’d helped create. This boy, the same age as Draco, a war hero, a champion of the people. Draco could have been bigger than Hagrid and still felt tiny compared to Harry.

And so he stood taller, his chin lofted so he could look down his nose at him.

“I need to talk to you,” Harry said, his voice sharper than Draco had ever heard it.

“Are we not talking?” Draco asked a pithy smirk shot down at Harry.

Harry made a face, his dark black brow arched in the lower light of the lounge. He jerked his head towards the door and Draco followed. He supposed it made sense, that Harry had come to kill Draco for — well, there were plenty of things he could be killed for, but he knew this particular penance was Hermione-shaped. The pair walked out with an equal pace, but Draco looked like he was on his way to his execution while Harry was loose and calm.

They walked the shadowed halls where the sconces would brighten and dim as they passed them. Harry watched the paintings, the same red wine clutched in his hand. He’d smile a little more or less depending on the painting, and Draco thought he might go insane in the silence. The sounds of the party echoed through the halls and he felt like he was back at Hogwarts, in a strange reality where he and Harry had become friends.

He would have liked that, he thought.

“This scholarship Hermione’s been offered,” Harry began, the same hard edge in his voice. He’d lost that shy quality he’d had as a child. His time as an Auror and against the Dark Lord had changed him, as much as it had Draco. “It’s not a trick, is it?”

“A trick?” Draco frowned at Harry.

Harry stopped walking, his wine held off to the side. “Well, it’s just strange. You hated Hermione, made fun of her, called her names… And then Ron and I leave her alone and now — what? — you’re trying to use her to piss us off?”

Draco’s head snapped back in several directions as if he hadn’t heard Harry correctly.

“Ron proposed to her, she said no, made some big fuss about it… Then she tells Ginny and I that she likes you,” Harry said as if he couldn’t fathom the idea. “And then you make her cry at that banquet earlier this month, you break her heart a few times, for a laugh, and now she’s got this token gesture from your mother… To what, bring her back in?”

Draco searched the space over Harry’s shoulder, his throat tense.

“You’ve made your point, whatever the fuck it is. Just leave her alone.”

“No.” Draco drew back, his hands formed into fists by his side.

Harry didn’t flinch, as if he’d expected that.

“I had no idea she felt anything for me, and she sent what, one letter?” Draco forced himself to swallow, the wine biting at his throat. “And I hadn’t had a chance to read it, being busy with family matters, and… I’ve never done anything to hurt her.”

“You have, repeatedly,” Harry took a step towards Draco but he didn’t move. “She was happy when she went to school, and now she comes back to the Burrow, miserable.”

“She’s always been miserable! Or have you never noticed how much she cries? She hides it well, glamour charms or she runs away to do it like she’s so strong she doesn’t fall apart, but she does.” Draco shot back, his head dropped and his shoulders squared. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen her cry? How many times I had to chase her, to help her feel better?”

Harry frowned at him, his wine glass strained between his fingers.

“I don’t know what fantasy you built up in your head, of you and Ginny marrying, then her and Ron. She deserves better than him, ten-fold. He visited her once in all the time she was at Hogwarts and sent a letter, maybe two. That girl deserves a thousand times better than that, she deserves someone who listens to her and goes out of their way to be with her. She deserves attention and praise and patience and empathy — ”

“And you think that’s you?”

Draco breathed, his hands formed into claws. He blinked, his lashes fluttered before his gaze dropped.

Harry took a sip of his wine, his eyes narrowed through the dark.

“I’ve had a lot of time, between May and now,” Draco lost the structure to his posture, that vaulted head and spread shoulders. He wilted like a flower in the sun, overwhelmed by it. “Strange enough, I kept tripping back to First year.”

“When you used to slick your hair back?”

Draco shot him a sharp smile. “I meant more, how I insisted we be friends, rather than act friendly.”

“Mhm,” Harry finished his wine and left the glass on a table nearby. It vanished in seconds, to which Harry laughed.

Draco’s lips moved, cautious then stern, a strange smile across his face. “I wished I’d been more friendly towards you.”

“I wouldn’t have gone easier on you during Quidditch.”

Draco rolled his eyes, to shove Harry in the shoulder. Harry laughed a little more, the shadows softened the anger he’d exuded before.

“Hermione said you’d gone soft,” Harry tipped his head, his eyes narrowed.

“For her,” Draco returned to his trained posture, head high and his eyes narrowed. “You’re still a laughable martyr who succeeded by mistake.”

“Hey, my life is a series of lucky mistakes, makes sense my death follows that,” Harry waved a hand. He had a Muggle suit on and sneakers, which made Draco smirk in a snide way.

They wandered back to the party through their banter. Draco isn’t any more or less reassured by the exchange, but he did see Hermione across the room, deep in conversation with his mother. He hadn’t noticed the emerald dress she’d arrived in with silver trim, tight around the throat and cinched at the waist. Her hair was loose and wild, as it usually was, but she had several silver stars worked into the space by her temples to keep it out of her face.

“Draco!” Narcissa said with a lofty wave.

Hermione turned and he stared at her like she was the last piece of land for a drowned man. He approached, his expression impassive as he looked to his mother.

“Hermione wants to see our Granians, she’s quite curious about them,” Narcissa took a long sip of her white wine, her eyes wide at Draco.

“Oh,” Draco couldn’t look at her, so he kept his gaze on his mother. “Are you going to show them to her?”

“I have a party to maintain, and you look like you could use some fresh air,” she waved her hand at him. “He’s been miserable all holidays, always in his room, or flying, I tell him to go out more.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Hermione said, a rustle as she toyed with her hair.

Draco pivoted on his heel and headed for the door. He heard the clack of Hermione behind him. He had to speak to her at some point, hadn’t he? But he didn’t know what to say, he didn’t have words, he didn’t have anything to say, nothing that would fix everything. He was sure she would tell him she’d quit school and run off with Weasley, or she’d started dating Rodger, or even Avery, that yellow-haired home wrecker —

“Draco,” Hermione said from a distance.

He paused to turn, to see her shuffling in shoes that didn’t suit her. They were vaulted, the sort that girls wore to give the illusion of length. He hadn’t noticed she’d worn heels. He would have walked slower if he knew. But then he’s just looking at her like a pained pet, left at the pound because they were too much to handle. And he wouldn’t blame her. He’s a heartbreak distilled to a boy, a spoiled brat with too much to say and no substance.

Hermione stared at him as she got close, her hair wide and sprawled behind her, the choked silver neckline like an invitation for him to wrap his hand around her throat to feel her pulse shift.

“You should have just told me.”

Hermione withdrew her head, a sense of offense to her expression.

“If you liked me, you should have just said.”

Hermione frowned through the dark.

He continued along the hallway, his brow set into a hard line, his hands dug into his pockets. He heard her clack behind him like a clock, tick, tock, as if she were time itself chasing him.

They arrived to the sprawled tiles and the snow. The hedges were all enchanted to remain full while the trees sat like skeletons in the night. The stars spread above cast some light, along with a series of enchanted lanterns suspended in iron cages. The small, sharp iron fences led in too many directions, but if she wanted to see the Granians, she would see the damn Granians. He drew his wand to clear snow as they walked, the wet stone black in the night.

“Are you angry that I like you?”

“No,” Draco said, in a voice that suggested he was.

“This is why I didn’t want to say anything.”

Draco remained impassive, his face still in the evening air.

“You’re ridiculous,” Hermione threw her hands up and he caught the slim gold band that her parents had given her. He felt his chest ripple with anxiety at the first sight of it like it might attack him. “I’m sorry if my crush on you is such an awful thing, I promise you I’m over it now if this is how you’re going to act about it.”

Draco shivered in the cold, though it had nothing to do with the temperature. He didn’t know what to say. He had to say something, he had to, but he can’t. He’d fucked it up the other day and now he’s made it worse. His ribs felt like knives and his insides felt like mush. They Granian field spread ahead of them, the creatures all shades of grey in the dark. They were much like horses but with wide, great wings. There was an ethereal air to them like they might shimmer out of existence.

Hermione lost her frustration to her admiration of the Granians. They remained at a distance, given the cold, but their heads perked. One particularly adventurous mare trotted out to survey them as if to make sure they weren’t a threat. He watched in quiet admiration as she met the Granian with a loose fist, to allow it to sniff her. Then she took to scratching its muzzle, her anger replaced with excitement.

Draco parted his lips and let them close, a pattern he repeated several times more. He crossed his arms and let himself lean on the fence with his hip.

“I have to ask,” Hermione said, one hand flat against the Granian’s muzzle while the other scratched at its neck. “Is it just me?”

“In what sense?” Draco asked, his gaze fixed on the snow field where the rest of the Granians remained secreted away.

“You don’t like me, do you. You can just say it. I’d rather you say you don’t if you don’t.” Hermione’s voice lost confidence but she collected herself, her chin lifted. “I’d rather be your friend than nothing. You’ve become very important to me, and… I know, the letter was a lot, perhaps too much. I was just afraid to say it to you in person. Because you’ve been so nice, and I was afraid if I mentioned it, you’d stop being nice… And that I’d lose you.”

“I’m a little pissed about it, to be honest.” Draco laughed, low from the back of his throat.

Hermione’s head snapped towards him, her expression is wide and terrified. The Granian withdrew given how her hair and tickled its face, so it flexed its wings and took flight. The rest of the string took to the air after it. They would fly around the estate and return, they were happy here, trained to remain. They watched in silence as they rose through the sky, gray streaks through the midnight blue.

“Hermione,” Draco said, his voice heavy. “I spent months falling for you, over and over, in new ways and in ways I’ve not experienced before. I’ve never really cared about people, no deeper than a passing friendship. I can play the part well enough, people are easy. But you’ve never been easy, never tried to be and I always hated that about you. You’re so smart but you refuse to whittle yourself down to be easy for others — you’re impossible, in all honesty.”

Hermione glared at him, her slim arms crossed in the dark of the field. The grass crunched as he stepped closer and she remained frozen to the spot as her emerald dress had formed with the lawn.

“You deserve more than anyone can give, far more than I have to offer.” He caught a thick lock of her hair, to smooth his fingers over her temple. The frost of the evening clung to her lashes and her skin was gooseflesh beneath his palm. “When your letter arrived, I assumed you’d sent a dismissal of me, that you hated me or you wanted me out of your life. I’m sorry for that, for not opening your letter. I’m sorry I didn’t get to take you somewhere nice, to tip your chin back and tell you first that I feel things with you that don’t fit into words. I’ve tried, extensively, but it’s not enough.”

“Stop saying that,” Hermione caught his wrist, her fingers tight on his pulse. “You don’t have to do anything special to deserve me, so stop. If you like me, and I like you, then that’s that, isn’t it?”

“It can’t be that simple,” Draco shot back, his expression pinched.

“Why not?” Hermione sneaked her hands beneath his blazer, as her arms were so cold in the evening air.

“I’m not made to be happy,” he said with a distant, grim laugh. “Good things don’t really happen to me.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Hermione shot back, her chin dropped. “You reject good things because you don’t think you deserve them.”

Draco withdrew enough to strip off his blazer, to drape it around her shoulders. He looked at her shoulders, her collarbone, anything that wasn’t her eyes. She caught his chin between strong fingers and tipped his head so that he had to look her in the eye. He hadn’t looked at her all night, not this close, not like he might kiss her.

“I know you sent me the daisies.”

Draco paled in the moonlight.

“I always check things when I receive them. Basic charms reveal who sent a parcel. I know how to discern the origin and the intent — it’s a rather clever spell, you should learn it. It’s not wise to accept anonymous packages on face value,” Hermione tipped her head to one side. “When I said Ron sent them, you didn’t correct me… But you had this look on your face like you wanted to.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Why didn’t you?” Hermione repeated back to him, a snort let out between them. “I really feel as though you’re trying to make things difficult for yourself.”

“You had a boyfriend,” Draco ran his hand over his face, to smooth his hair away.

“I mean, you had a girlfriend.”

Draco snatched her cheeks between his hands, to stare at her with more intent. “I’ll have you know, I was going to take you somewhere beautiful, maybe France, or at least a nice cafe. I was going to give you a big speech about how I felt for you, and you’ve ruined that for yourself. I hope you know that.”

“I don’t much care for grand romantic gestures. They’re self-aggrandizing and unrealistic, not to mention rather self-involved,” Hermione’s words were pinched by the plush of her cheeks between his palms. “I’d rather you just tell me you like me then kiss me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco exhaled.

“Says the boy who’s mad at me for beating him to a romantic confession. Of all the things to be a sore loser about,” Hermione made a sound like a kiss before she drew back, her head tipped to the side. She beamed at him through the shadows as she took a step back, then another. Before he had a chance to grab her she had begun to run back towards the manor.

Draco hissed through his teeth and bolted after her. She let out a panicked cry and took a hard right into the maze field, a string of giggles and terrified squeaks left in her wake.

He listened for her in the hedges, for the sound of her breathing or the rustle of leaves. The maze shifted for him, like a knife through butter. He could get to any point of the maze through sheer force of will, given the property worked in his favor. The sound didn’t ring the same in the tamped silence of the greenery, but he could hear her. He turned to his left which made the hedges receded to let him pass. He caught sight of her, green against green, the flecks of silver caught in the slim moonlight.

“That’s cheating,” she huffed as he waved hedges out of the way.

“Have you ever known me to play fair?”

Hermione scowled at him, cornered in the dark by the swell of the shrubbery. Her cheeks were pink and there was a darkness to her gaze.

“What’s the matter?” Draco said, a tip to his head as he closed the gap. Concern began to rise behind the fun of it, the chase through the maze and the warmth she radiated.

“Nothing, I suppose,” she said as if everything was the matter.

Draco looked over her as if the problem might emerge by sight alone.

“If you like me,” she said, her voice gentle. She seemed to squirm beneath his gaze, several feet remained between them. “Why don’t you… That is, why haven’t you kissed me?”

Draco swallowed hard, recognition slammed into his chest. The dark looks, the tilt of her lips, the green, green dress she’d worn as if it were all for him. He didn’t know if she was all that cunning but something in him sparked as if he’d seen her for the first time. “Is that an invitation, Granger?”

Hermione looked as if she’d scream at him, but instead remained fixed against the hedge. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you.”

Draco’s hands shook but he kept the confidence everywhere else. His face remained impassive, in part thanks to his upbringing and his training with his aunt. He reached for her jawline which felt so sharp despite her round cheeks. She was softer than she looked, far warmer, and he’s so glad that for once she isn’t on the verge of tears. He felt as though he’d never been this close to her, not unless she was about to break.

But with how her jaw chattered in the dark, her draped in his blazer, her wrapped in emerald, he’s sure she’s about to break in a different way.

A far more fun way.

“Hermione,” he said as if he were about to scold her. He can feel her prickle as if she might bite him. “You’re not the sort of girl I’d want to kiss once.”

The confusion exploded across her face, a mixture of embarrassment and anger mixed into her bright brown eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean!”

Draco kept her chin in place, the gap between them far slimmer. “I’d rather never have you than lose you — does that make more sense?”

Hermione blinked through the dark as she looked convinced he was insulting her somehow.

“I could have kissed you any number of times, we’d have laughed about it, but — I don’t want that, with you. I don’t want it to be a kiss, played off, ignored.” He let his hand fall away, his throat strained. “I like you, and I don’t like anyone. I don’t like people, period.”

“I wouldn’t have played it off as a laugh,” Hermione dipped sideways, to chase his hands. “I’m not sure what you mean…”

Draco stepped back, the broken shape of the moment stuck between them. He should have just kissed her. It didn’t have to mean anything, it could have been fun, distant and just because, because she wanted him to, they both wanted it. But something sat low in his throat, this deep black spot that ruined everything good he touched and consumed what happiness he had on hand.

Several Granians swooped by, their hooves brushed the maze. The rustle caught them both by surprise as they jumped, lost in the hedgemaze, lost in the dark that Draco had thrown over them.

They headed back towards the Manor in mirrored silence, a strange tension settled between them. She gave him back his blazer and the night went on, much as it would have normally. Draco felt that cotton distance around everything, soft and shapeless. He ignored the champagne-haired girl with the moss eyes, despite how she asked him question after question.

Hermione and Harry were at the far end of the table in talks with his mother. Draco was trapped with his father, who wanted him to work his way into the pockets of several Ministry men.

She didn’t say goodbye and he didn’t think to pursue her.

She always said how she felt like she was broken, how she didn’t get things. Draco never felt closer to her than he did as he laid in bed, stuck in the tar pit that was his need to ruin things. He could have just kissed her, it was a perfect moment, dressed in finery in the deep mazes of his estate. If she were any other girl, he’d have kissed her if he’d felt like it, he’d have worked his tongue and hands until he’d gotten whatever he saw fit.

But he can’t do that with her.

He simply can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever wanna shake your own writing. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Sunday — December 27th, 1998.**

The holidays came and went in much the same fashion as ever. Draco got several new sets of dress robes, several suits, a set of crystal glasses and a set of books on obscure magical branches; alchemy, blood rituals, possession, summoning. They were darker, no doubt, but he had exhausted much of the blander topics. He had gotten his mother a necklace with fine silver links and a sleek protective sigil on it, one that would act as a shield against most dark magic. It would need time to recharge between impact, but it was a base precaution.

He and his father had exchanged a stern nod.

Merry Christmas.

Draco trudged through the door into his dorm near midnight. He had pushed back his return as much as possible. He had run through every possible outcome; that she’d moved out, that she’d stayed, that she’d dropped out of school, or that she’d be waiting for him like a spiteful Sphinx.

He was met with a strange mix.

Her things were still in their spots. Her brush and her stacks of books remained by her bed. Her robes were hung at strange angles and her satchel for classes was over the end of her bed. But she wasn’t here. Not that he could see, not past the wooden slats that Rodger had smacked into place when he first moved in. He blinked through the dark at her bed before he walked over to her bed, to check, but she wasn’t there.

Panic chewed at his stomach. He pulled out two small boxes wrapped in silver with glittering blue bows. He set them down, picked them back up, put them back down, rearranged them — it didn’t matter, whatever, he shouldn’t worry about it. He raked his fingers through his hair a few times before he forced himself to leave them, to walk over to his bed.

He fell into it in the dark of his curtains and landed on Hermione.

She screamed, that’s how he knew it was her. She had a distinct scream.

Draco was sure he’d never hear again.

He caught himself halfway as he’d not wanted to land face-first into the bed, but that left him above her, wide-eyed as she shrieked.

And he fell onto the floor beside her, about ready to throw up.

“I’m so sorry!”

Draco wanted to tell her it was okay, just a mistake, that he was sorry, but he was trapped in a panic. He breathed through his clenched teeth, terrified that he might have hurt her if he’d been quicker with his wand or his hands. Or how he’d basically thrown himself onto the girl, who was in her pajamas, in his bed. That she had screamed in his face like she might die, and he had been the reason for it.

“Oh my God, Draco,” she slid off the bed, stuck between laughter and terror.

“What the fuck Hermione.”

Hermione had her hands slapped over her mouth, tears down her cheeks as she cried through her laughter. She buried her face into her hands and he wished he’d stayed home.

Draco rested his back against the bed as he swallowed through his panic, his heart in his ears.

“I… I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Why were you in my bed?”

Hermione gasped around her answer but scrunched downward, her face red.

“Did you miss me that much?” Draco said, his voice sharp.

“I came over to leave your Christmas present,” she waved her hand. “I had wanted to give it to you in person, so I was going to sit on your bed and wait for you to get back.”

“What could you possibly want to give me in person?”

“Well… I feel rather stupid now, I wasn’t meant to fall asleep.”

“Just hand it over.”

“You’re sure?”

Draco looked at her through the dark, his gaze shadowed. “If you think I still deserve it after everything that’s happened as of late.”

Hermione scooted closer, her hands settled against his cheeks. He had done the same to her so many times, he’d never really thought about what it’d feel like to have her do the same. He never imagined her like this, close by choice and enticed rather than terrified. She still had the laughter behind her eyes, at the awful situation he’d thrust them into. But it’s her fault as much as his. It’s all their fault, together.

“If you’re trying to use Legilimency, you’re terrible at it.”

“It’s a kiss actually, or it will be,” Hermione shot back sharper than he’d ever heard her. “And in spite of how much of a prick you’ve tried to be, yes, you still deserve it.”

“Doubtful,” Draco swallowed hard, unmoved as she inched closer. He closed the gap on her behalf, as he should have several dozen times before. Whenever she’d looked over her shoulder at him after he’d braided her hair, or when she’d looked up at him like she had something secret to share with him. All those times that she pouted and fussed over an essay or how she’d look so soft in the morning before she was fully awake. And he hadn’t realized that as soft as she could be, there was a cyanide edge to her, sharp like metal, and he was right.

She isn’t the sort of girl he can kiss once.

Her hands rested on his jaw as the kiss sat between them no more than lips parted. The proximity and the thought are enough to make him sure he’d died, that he couldn’t be here, that it was too good, and so he leaned into it. He trusted the instincts he’d shackled down, the ones that told him that he’d ruin her, ruin them, because she’d torn it apart. He had mistaken his feelings for her, though. He had simplified them to kindling and sparks when he felt more like phoenix fire. He died, as he expected, but something emerged.

Something like feelings, something bright in all the black that sat deep in his chest.

Draco yanked her closer by the waist, across his lap, and she squeaked between them. He froze, as he came to his senses, that he’d mistaken the gesture. She shivered against him, no further sounds, no encouragement, just still and silent.

“I didn’t say stop,” Hermione exhaled as she recaptured his lips.

“Mh,” Draco withdrew from the kiss, his head angled against the bed with his gaze slanted down at her. “But you didn’t ask me to continue, and you said a kiss.”

“Okay,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “A series of kisses.”

“That’s vague,” Draco adjusted her in his lap and did his best not to grind against her. He didn’t want to terrify her any further than he had with the first grab.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him and reached across to his bag. She dug out a quill and parchment, which she splayed against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her palm through the paper, against the scar that’d been carved in Sixth year.

“Hermione,” he said, his voice flat.

“Hermione Granger permits Draco Malfoy to provide… Let’s say five kisses.”

“Five,” Draco almost threw her off him but he didn’t want to lose her. “Doesn’t the economy usually boom after a war, not die.”

“Three kisses.”

Draco remained static as she scribbled out onto the parchment though he was sure it was nonsense. She wouldn’t meet his eye but he had his hands on her hips. He did his level best not to toss her up onto the bed and readjust, for both their sakes. He didn’t want to ruin the moment. He didn’t want to act on impulse and do the wrong thing, to push too far or take too much. She’d been with Weasley for seven months and it sounded like she’d held his hand once, maybe. But he didn’t want to think of them together, he might be ill.

“There,” Hermione blew on the parchment and turned it to show him.

_Hermione Granger permits Draco Malfoy to provide her with kisses until the arrangement is nulled by either party. - Signed Hermione Jean Granger_

“You’ll need to sign if you agree.”

“Regrettable.”

Hermione frowned to turn the paper as if she’d made a mistake.

“It doesn’t allow for the inverse,” Draco laid his head back, the line of his throat sharp in the dark. “Which means contractually, you aren’t allowed to kiss me.”

Silence sat between them again, for longer than Draco liked. But then Hermione pressed a kiss to the thin column of his throat and he didn’t have the foresight to stop his hips. She drew back as he ground against her, the silence heavy between them. It had been a second, just a second, and he’d ruined it.

“Would you like to go to Hogsmeade? Say, next weekend?” His voice crackled in the dark as if his entire body might give out.

“I would. Yes.” Hermione cleared her throat against the thin flesh of his neck, her mouth secured into the crook of it. She slid off of his lap as if all her bluster had been stolen from her. He’d not noticed she was in those stupid little shorts she always wore, a fact he now regretted not enjoying more. He had just been so overwhelmed with her, all of her, the closeness and the intent.

“I got you something,” he waved a hand at her bed, still slack against the side of his bed where he’d fallen.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hermione waved her hands. “And, I did get you something too, so, just, wait here.” He watched her with far less hesitance as trotted around to her bed. His gaze lingered around her thighs until she turned and he noticed how her back met her legs in such an enticing curve. He cleared his throat as he tried to regain composure as if it hadn’t been shoved out of him when she’d screamed into his face.

Hermione came back with three boxes; his gifts and hers. She sat with her legs curled to one side, her gifts kept while she handed his over.

“Is this going to be a second-best pin for when I lose to you in every subject?” Draco drawled.

“No, that’s your graduation present,” she tugged open the ribbon on the first box.

He had gotten her perfume which was tuberose, ylang-ylang, vanilla, jasmine flowers and several dozen roses. He didn’t know the brand, his mother had suggested it, but it was leagues above that cheap swill Weasley slung at her. The second gift was a wax seal which formed the wax as you pressed it. It had several bezels on the wooden handle, to set the seal and the color of the wax. It could do pastels, bright colors, metallics — he thought it would suit her, rather than that standard Gryffindor thing.

But he didn’t get to watch her reaction, not as he pulled open a small box with a set of cuff links. They were sleek dragon heads with emeralds for eyes. He examined them closer, a wry smile on his lips.

“They’re protective,” Hermione reached across to point at the eyes. “If your food or drink has been tampered with, the eyes will glow red.”

“Is this because you poisoned me, Granger.”

Hermione reached across to kiss him, and he didn’t know how to react. He did, of course, he leaned into her and caught her cheek, as he’d imagined he’d have done a dozen times before. He lingered in it, his lips angled against hers, to deepen the kiss further. The soft sound of surprise that came out of her was followed by something darker, something he wanted to hear on repeat.

When they parted, she looked smug.

“So much for not being contractually permitted to kiss you, hm.”

“You’re a criminal,” Draco said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m sure punishment will flow your way in time.”

Hermione looked over the perfume and the seal, a pleasant smile on her face. A smile she shared with him, as he could take ownership of them. And of this moment. He wished he didn’t feel tired, not as he watched her through the dark of their room.

“Thank you, they’re lovely,” Draco said, the small box held to one side.

“I’ve never heard you call something lovely,” Hermione said as if the world had changed on its axis.

“You’re lovely.”

Hermione laughed like he didn’t mean it.

“You’re beautiful and patient, and you deserve so much better.”

“There’s no such thing as deserving better. I want you,” Hermione said, her voice decisive. “Don’t try to play the pity card.”

Draco made a grim face at her in the dark as sleep crept over them. She moved across, to lean against his shoulder. And he wrapped his arm around her, her cheek on her shoulder. They sat like that for a long while. He had so much to say. He should tell her how he enjoyed her hair or how she smiled or how fucking annoying she was when she knew she was right. He should tell her he was sorry, truly sorry, that he’d never miss a letter to her again. He should tell her that he cares about her, he’s cared for a while, even when he said he didn’t care.

But she’s asleep on his shoulder.

And so he carried her to her bed. She was too light, it was too easy to pick her up. He set her presents on her bedside table.

And he went out for a cigarette, quite sure he’d imagined it all.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Monday - 28th Dember, 1998.**

Draco found the letters he’d asked Tripley to banish in the morning light. They were all across Hermione’s desk, the letters about how he was sorry, and how he wanted to fuck her, how he was sorry, how he thought she was pretty, how he was sorry. It progressed from formal to frantic, as if he had lost his mind in his isolation.

“Avery gave them to me,” Hermione said from the edge of her bed, sleepy face peeked around the wooden slats. “They arrived in Rodger’s bed, strangely enough, he was going to send them around school or something, for a laugh, but she grabbed them off him.”

Draco was out the door, wand in hand.

“No, no, get back here!” Hermione rushed out after him in loose pajamas, her socked feet skidded across the floor. She almost fell but he caught her because, between revenge and her, it had to be her.

“I just want to say hello.”

“With your wand out.”

“I’m very inventive with my greetings.”

Hermione gave him a serious look, her brow furrowed. “I’d rather you say thank you to Avery.”

The hot wave of shame rolled over him as he realized Hermione had received those letters. The ones he had been too afraid to send, the forty-five letters dedicated to his crush on her, where he’d torn her apart and turned his feelings into a monster. His nostrils flared as he stared down at her, but she didn’t look at him any different. Not like she hated him or that she judged him for the letters. Instead, she remained, that soft bright warmth that he’d never feel like he deserved.

“When did you get them?” Draco asked, his voice thin.

“When I got back yesterday morning. Um,” Hermione ruffled her hair over her shoulders. “I hadn’t expected so many, but I appreciate the thought.”

“And you read them all.”

“I did.”

“And you still like me.”

Hermione laughed as if he were joking. “It was enlightening and… Graphic, but I appreciated your honesty. You didn’t have to apologize so much,” she reached up to kiss him, a gentle sweet gesture in the morning. He felt like he might fall over but he remained firm. He didn’t know if this was normal for them now if this was how things would be.

They dressed for their day of classes and the question rattled in his brain. He liked her, she liked him. They had kissed and exchanged gifts… She had agreed to go to Hogsmeade with him. At what point did it transition into something he could speak about? His chest seized at the thought. He was either a known element or a secret, though he opted for the latter. He doubted she would tell people. That sounded out of character for her, to bustle and brag about her boyfriend.

Draco almost threw up onto the Great Hall table.

“You okay, Malfoy?” Pansy asked through a mouth full of scrambled eggs.

“I hope he’s dying,” Daphne said, a smart smile shot his way.

“Oh, Astoria can do better,” Pansy waved a hand at the girl who was at the far end of the table.

Astoria looked as if she’d spent her holidays in tears, but had tried hard to cover it up. Her face was raw and her eyes were red, but her hair was perfect as was her makeup. She looked as pretty as ever, but in that distant way that a sculpture is pretty. She met Draco’s eye with a sad distance, her face turned away after she’d counted to five. It was a regimented case of playing hard to get.

“Draco,” Blaise said, his voice loud and his expression pained. “I need you to pick up the Seeker role.”

Draco blinked out of time at Blaise, still trapped on the word ‘boyfriend’ as if he’d created his own taboo.

“Great!”

“Hey, wait,” Draco laughed in a low, breathy way. “I can’t be Seeker.”

“Warmington is… I cannot stress this enough, Warmington is going to put our house into the negatives. The negatives, Draco,” Blaise laid his hands flat on the table as he pleaded with his eyes. “All I need you to do is go onto the field and get the Snitch as soon as possible. That’s it. On and off. Snitch and ditch.”

Draco as good as growled over his coffee.

“Great, you’re a champ.”

“He’ll do it?” Theo asked, a sleek smirk on his face.

His friends continued to titter around him but he was stuck on Hermione. She had this glow around her.

She didn’t even look at the Owl Post as it arrived.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Friday - 1st January, 1999.**

The time between each kiss was painful.

They happened most in their dorms, whether that was his fault or Hermione’s. It wasn’t a fault thing, per se. He had just never cared for public displays of affection unless it was out of spite. He was private in such matters and hated the idea of people gawking at them. At Hermione, moreso, of course, but it’s tetchy water. And it was worse in some ways, as now he could lose her.

He’d lose the way she’d refuse to kiss him until she’d brushed her teeth after dinner as if he gave a fuck about that.

He’d lose the sleepy little kiss she’d press to his cheek when she passed him to go to the bathroom when they were studying.

He’d lose the impromptu cuddle session that she’d started when he’d flopped onto his bed after Quidditch practice Tuesday evening, where she’d rushed to him like he was magnetic. She didn’t care that he was sweaty and awful and he teased her about it, about how she just liked him in his Quidditch gear, and she wouldn’t look him in the eye all night.

He was terrified.

It was too good.

Something had to break.

“Are you okay, Draco?”

Draco drew a low breath in the dungeon, at least reassured by the shadows.

Hermione smiled, patient and attentive. She was so much worse now, so affectionate, she cared without hesitation. She was still sharp and clever, she’d call him an idiot if he was being one, but she looked at him like she cared and it made him want to die all over again. It’s too much for him, too much, too much.

Draco nodded once, exhaustion laced in his features.

Her hand slid into his, their fingers interlocked.

He still didn’t know what was okay with her, or what was too much. He walked beside her in even steps as they listened for students. She had begun to learn the shadows and alcoves, the sorts of places that people would hide within.

“I had a question if that’s okay.”

“Imagine, you with a question.”

“Why did you think if you kissed me, I’d have laughed it off?”

Draco’s attention snapped to her.

“I just wonder what I did to give you that impression,” Hermione remained focused ahead, her head tipped forward just a fraction as she stepped over some uneven cobblestone.

“You didn’t do anything,” Draco squeezed her hand, as it seemed like the thing to do.

“Is that what people have done to you in the past?” Hermione looked up at him, distant except for the contact between their hands.

“No,” Draco chewed his inner cheek. He broke into a smile, indifferent and vague. “I don’t usually have issues with people. Not like I’ve had with you.”

Hermione elbowed him gently.

“You had Weasley for a long while there. And, the last thing I wanted to do was… To exploit you, to put you in a situation where it could have been anything less than real.”

“So, you wanted to maintain our friendship?”

Draco looked down at her.

“You didn’t date Astoria,” Hermione said, her voice cautious. “But you expected to…”

“No,” Draco cut her off. “Astoria wanted to fuck me.”

Hermione’s throat strained. She didn’t speak, but he wished she would.

“She just liked me a little too much,” Draco shook his head back, persistent nonchalance as if he didn’t care. “The — that whole thing happened and she read into it.”

Hermione paled in the shadows, their hands came apart. She crossed her arms, her head dropped.

“Hermione,” Draco said, his voice heavy in the dark.

“Am I reading into this?”

Draco moved to stand in front of her, but she pivoted on the spot away from him. He grabbed her shoulder and caught her chin, but her hair obscured her face. “I like you, Hermione. A lot. I like being around you, even if all I got was a few minutes of your day while you read, I’d be content. I want more, of course, I want you all to myself.” He tipped his head to chase her gaze. “I asked you on a date this weekend, didn’t I.”

“You did,” she said, her voice small.

“We should go on a date,” Draco repeated, to be clear. “And then… We can see. We can make sure. But I told you, I’d rather never have you than lose you.”

“So you have me,” Hermione turned her head sharp enough to smirk at him, the feigned tragedy a means to yank confessions out of him.

Draco frowned at her through the dark of the hallway. 

Hermione shifted, but his hand remained on her shoulder and chin.

“You’re mine.” Draco’s gaze sharpened in the dark. “And if you leave, or I lose you, you’re still mine.”

“And if I don’t want you?” Hermione asked, to test the space between them.

Draco swallowed hard enough to strain his tie. “Then you don’t want me,” he leaned down to kiss her, for as long as he felt they could spare in the midst of their patrol. He was often gentle and cautious with her as if she might shatter beneath him. But he threw that aside, terrified this was her roundabout way to break up with him before they’d begun to date. He poured her into himself as if the gaps and cracks might vanish if she cared enough about him.

As if he might be okay, if only for her.

But people don’t do that. People can’t fix others. They can comfort and console, they can listen and advise, but at the end of the day, Draco remained alone with the black gap in his chest that looked less bottomless with her in his grasp. He tipped her head back and drew in her breaths, the edges of moans that she was too stubborn to let loose, the wild brown hair tangled in his slim pale fingers. The way she’d bite at him, bite his lip as if to test if she were allowed to.

She could do anything to him, so long as she stayed.

Draco withdrew, his forehead pressed against hers.

“If you go, then you’ll be free of me, and you’ll still be mine, to me,” he gathered her hand up, to press it to his chest. His heartbeat against her palm, his wide scar breathing along with him. “And I’ll remain yours.”

“That’s… A lot of responsibility,” Hermione exhaled, her face red.

“I’m broken,” Draco smiled at her. “Not much more you can do to break me further.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like no matter how many ways I planned for them to kiss, it would have been not the way I expected but look. LOOK. There's a lot of conversations they gotta have.


	12. Chapter 12

**Saturday — 2nd January, 1998.**

“What a beautiful day today — ” 

“Ms. Lovegood.”

“Yes, Headmistress?”

“The game?”

Draco watched the sun as it glinted off Luna Lovegood’s bobblehead. He didn’t usually focus on the announcements, but she made it hard to ignore. She was like the worst Snitch in the world, with her lilted voice and her confused drone. But no one else at Hogwarts had the charisma nor confidence to announce.

Not that the lack of either stopped Luna.

“You know, I have a funny story about a Quaffle and a piglet.” Luna giggled. “Ah, what a good story, you see — ”

Draco rolled his eyes so hard his broom spun around. He held on, spun upside down for the fun of the gesture. He remained upside down for a few seconds, much to the crowd’s amusement. They cheered and jeered and he didn’t care. Not like he used to when he was a Second year, terrified of people, terrified they might think he’d bought his way onto the team thanks to Granger.

He sped past the stands, Hufflepuff then Gryffindor.

Hermione was there, her face squashed between her beanie and her scarf. He didn’t linger, he couldn’t, but he’d winked.

He knew she’d seen.

He took from one end to the other as the Ravenclaw seeker did the same. They followed him, that angry little face and weedy posture unmistakable.

If Blaise had told Draco that Rodger had been the Seeker, then he’d have snatched the role up in a second. He hadn’t gotten even yet with the prick, the foul little spat of shit — Draco grit his teeth as he dodged a Bludger, his gaze snapped to the Beaters. The match had been friendly, no doubt, but Draco remained on edge. He had tortured half the school last year, suffice to say he expected someone to try their luck.

Rodger flew closer in the lull of the game.

“I’d recommend you just leave the Seeking to me,” Rodger said, his voice lofty.

“Oh, do you?”

Rodger inched closer as if the proximity was needed. Draco could hear him from where he’d been. “I kept a letter — I’m happy to put it around. See how Granger likes it, finding out what a fucking pervert you are.” And he smiled as if he’d won, and Draco felt…

He felt something.

It was nice to feel something for once. Even if it was the urge to turn Rodger into a hand puppet.

“Oh, that’s nice, inter-team conversations… I always thought if people just talked it out, Quidditch might be more fun,” Luna said, which might have sounded like sarcasm from anyone else.

Draco nodded once, twice, his heart torn into two pieces.

If he won, then Rodger would out his relationship with Hermione before it’d even started. But if he lost…

Draco’s skin crawled.

Rodger would feel like he’d won. But he’d win either way. But at least Hermione could retain plausible deniability. Draco’s throat bobbed, his anger at odds with his logic. He gripped his broom tighter as he saw Rodger still in the air. And then he dove.

It felt like lightning ran through him, the urge to win, the urge to beat the little wretch at his own pitiful game.

To beat the Team Captain his first match back.

To make up for the last game.

To win.

“Oh look, did you see that? A thestral flew past. They're rather pretty, aren't they?” Luna pointed while the crowd had broken into panicked excitement.

“Luna!” McGonagall sounded like she might shove Luna over the barrier. "The Snitch!"

“Hm! Oh!” Luna squinted at the field. “Looks like Ravenclaw won, I guess. Huh. Thought Draco had that.”

Draco had the lead. He could have had the Snitch first if he wanted it, but he...

At the last second, he’d stilled. He curled his hand back and inched away, and he lost. He lost to Rodger, to Ravenclaw. Of course, he lost. He knew he'd lose. It was why he'd never bothered to play in the first place. The flyers all rushed into the center, both teams crammed together with mixed anger and excitement. They’d lost by eighty points. They could have won by a mile if he'd gotten the Snitch, but he hadn't.

Blaise smacked Draco on the back with the flat of his hand, words of encouragement, kind words, Blaise was too good a man for Draco. He stood as Ravenclaw broke into their celebration and all Draco felt was numb.

The players lined up to shake hands as the crowd filtered down and out of the stadium. Most students milled by the edges, or if they had friends on the teams, they crowed closer. Hermione had moved to stand with Luna and Ginny, her head bent to laugh with the girls.

He stared at the ground and shook each hand with mechanical precision.

Until one hand latched on, to tug him closer.

"Good sport, Malfoy."

"The letter, Corner," Draco hissed.

“Oh? I don’t have a letter,” Rodger whispered by Draco’s ear. “But thanks mate.”

Draco didn’t have a chance to punch him but he wished he had. It was a such a Muggle thing to do, such a debased act of animalism. It seemed like the sort of thing one did in a bar drunk, or on a street. But he wanted to, with every fiber of his being.

And then Hermione bounced over, as she grabbed his cheeks and kissed him.

As if she didn’t care that the entire school was there.

The air went silent around them as if someone had struck everyone in the throat at the same time. People continued to chat and buddy off, but several groups paused to stare at the strange arrangement. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, hand in hand in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch, as if this were a showdown.

Draco didn’t have words.

Merlin, he wished he had words.

“You did amazing Draco,” she smiled up at him as if he’d won. “For not having played in a long while, you — you were brilliant.”

“I was hoping for magnanimous,” he glared across her head towards Rodger, who had dropped the spread of Quidditch balls across the pitch. He smirked as he caught Hermione’s chin, to peck her forehead.

“That doesn’t quite work in this context,” she said, her uncertain gaze bounced around for a synonym.

“Trust me, it does,” Draco gathered her cheeks into his palms and drew her in to kiss her, as she’d set the precedent. She made a sound of surprise from the back of her throat but she broke. It remained no more than a kiss, lips upon lips. The crowd lost their edge and resumed the celebration. 

A loss never felt so much like a win in his life.

He walked back to the castle with Hermione pressed to his side. He expected her to be eager for space given his sweat and heat. Instead, she treated him as a heater, her hands burrowed beneath his robes and her face against his bicep. Rodger had walked with them, along with the Ravenclaws and a few Gryffindors, but no one had been courageous enough to make a comment. Ginny and Luna gave Draco mixed looks; Ginny looked dubious while Luna looked stoned.

“Why are you being so fucking pouty?” Avery shoved Rodger who stumbled.

They were ahead of Hermione and Draco, the other Head Couple.

The worse Head Couple, Draco decided.

“Why do you always shove me?”

“Oh, it’s just playful, don’t get all upset over something stupid like being playful.”

“It’s not playful, you’re out to fucking kill me.”

“You won your precious Quidditch game — ”

Hermione laughed into the meat of his arm and Draco reached up to pinch her cheek.

Avery and Rodger vanished into their dorm, though the sound died as the door shut.

“Why’d you pull back?”

Draco gritted his teeth, his broom over his shoulder while Hermione hung off his arm.

The lounge had become a home to them in their own small way. Hermione had thrown a blanket over the back of the couch and the fire looked well-used. Several magazines laid across the coffee table and Hermione had returned her snacks and her mugs. She had stopped the book suggestions for Avery and Rodger but she’d privately resumed her book recommendations for Draco. His gaze skimmed the room, in search of anything that might save him from the conversation.

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” Hermione dug her fat binoculars from her satchel, which she brought to every game. “I watched, I could see you pull back.”

“Fame is just too much for me — ” 

“What did he do.”

Draco tongued the edge of his mouth, his gaze fixed on the fireplace. His gaze returned to Hermione at her provocation, her thin fingers gentle against his stubbly jaw. He could feel the pads of her fingers rasp against as she dragged her fingers across it. He rolled his jaw beneath her touch before he grabbed her, waist then thighs, to bury his face into her neck. She was small enough to pick up and he’d done it several times for the sake of show. She froze, which he was used to, but then she melted into him.

“I asked you a question — ”

“No comment.”

“Draco.”

Draco mumbled a few words into the thin crook of her neck. He kissed a firm line along her throat, hard enough to feel her pulse quicken against his lips. She wriggled herself back to her feet and he allowed her to, dejected.

“Just tell me,” Hermione rolled her eyes, red from her cheeks to her throat.

“I’m rather annoyed about it, actually,” Draco said, his gaze rolled to the ceiling. “He said he had a letter I’d written to you, he was going to send it around the school to embarrass me… Or, us, I suppose.”

Hermione’s expression curdled like he’d told her someone had died. She turned on her heel, her wand out and her hair frizzed.

“Hey,” Draco chased her, which felt rich given he’d tried to kill Rodger several times. He pulled her close, to stroke her cheek with the flat of his palm. “He lied, he doesn’t have a letter.”

“So, he said, if… If you let him catch it, he’d keep it private — “

“And then you kissed me in front of everyone and there wasn’t even a damn letter, so I could have won. Which is the annoying part.”

“But you lost.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me.”

“You lost for me.”

Draco’s expression scrunched, confused at the question. “I… Yeah, I guess, if you want to aggrandize the gesture on my behalf.”

The weight of Hermione would never be a familiar thing to him. He wished it was, given how he liked to hold her close, but it took him by surprise each time. Not because she’s heavy, but quite the opposite. She was so light that he felt light by proxy as if she lifted him with her mere touch. She kissed him, deep and demanding, and all he wanted to do was claim every part of her. But that impulse, that need to own things whole, it faltered around her.

Because she isn’t something he can claim altogether. She wouldn’t permit it and he was too afraid to ask.

Too afraid to lose her.

So he took in the moment, her thighs back into his palms. He didn’t count the steps, it could have been ten or ten thousand, but he got her to his bed, to lay her down with as much control as he had on hand. But he didn’t have space, she demanded him close, her arms around his neck and her lips as fierce as her eyes. She didn’t do anything by halves, which shocked him. She had this shy softness to her up until she broke until something struck her just the right way, and then she was beyond him.

He chased her in that moment, her fingers so tight in his hair he hissed. She bit his lip and his jawline, to bite lower at his throat. He let her, let her do whatever she liked, anything she wanted to, because she didn’t often break like this. Not like glass or like a twig, but like fireworks before they sprawled in the sky. He watched her with the same wonder as she wriggled back against his bed beneath him, at his touch, with him. His, his, all his.

“Sorry,” she exhaled, so red she might be rubies incarnate. Her fingers trailed through his robes and he was so damn curious about what she had planned with her hands. But instead, she smoothed his hair from his face, a shy smile on her lips as if she’d just woken up.

That softness, that sleepiness.

But he’d had a taste.

“I knew you had a thing for Quidditch robes.”

Hermione smacked him so hard he saw stars; in her, around her, as she crawled out from beneath him, her thigh against his erection as if it didn’t bother her.

Draco bit down the urge to call her a tease because she isn’t that clever yet.

She doesn’t realize; she’ll be impossible when she learned.

The kisses devolved into Charms and History essays in equal measure. They wanted to go out tomorrow to Hogsmeade which meant they needed to finish their course work. Once they’d showered and collected their work, they set up in a small corner of the Library to write and research. Draco was pleased with his ability to pretend he’d not wanted to fuck her through the mattress several hours ago. He’s nothing if not a good actor.

“I’ve made a decision,” Hermione announced through the silence.

“Oh, have you?”

“I’m going to take you on a date,” Hermione smacked her hands on the desk in front of her, her lips pouted and her eyes bright in the low candlelight. They’d been here since just after lunch and it was near midnight.

“Yes, that’s…” Draco couldn’t help but smile, his fingers laid between the fine yellow pages of his Arithmancy textbook. He watched her with the same cautious glance that one spared the sun as if to make sure it was still there. But not for long, not long enough to leave an afterimage. Her, with the daisy behind her ear. Her, asleep on his shoulder. Her, beneath him, undone. “That’s why I asked you out this weekend.”

“No, no,” Hermione waved her hands in the air, to reach across to his hands.

Heat sprinted from Draco’s chest to his cheeks as she took his hands into hers. She brushed the fine skin of the back of his hand where several thin lines laid. They were scars from Bellatrix when he’d fail at some task or another. She thumbed them, idle as if she hadn’t noticed them.

“Has anyone ever taken you on a date?”

“Ah,” Draco smiled through his discomfort. “I’ve taken people on dates before, Hermione. Do you think I’ll be so dreadful as to take you on a terrible date..?”

“No,” Hermione frowned at him as if he were ten steps behind her in a math problem. “I want to take you out.”

“Kill me?”

“On a date.”

"I'd rather die on a date than anywhere else, I suppose..." Draco laughed again, unable to contain it.

“Stop laughing,” Hermione squeezed his hands. She was never rough with him, though he anticipated she’d worsen in time. He had seen her smack Harry and Ron on the head or shoulder often enough. Not that he watched them, across the hall, their breakfasts laid in front of them as wide as their smiles.

“I already asked you out. That’s… You can’t steal my date,” Draco tipped his head left and right as if she’d become clearer from a different angle. “You already stole my heart.”

“Oh, shut up,” she blushed, red for the sake of redness.

Draco wanted to yank her across the desk, the urge to kiss her as terrible as every other impulse that passed him in this Library. They were alone given it was late. He didn’t know if anyone else was in the Library so late, but their dorm was attached to the place. He liked it here. It was one of the few places he’d avoided in Seventh year, so he was left with the soft nostalgia of his younger years. Which made him feel old, to think of his childhood as so distant when he was nineteen.

But the way he felt when her fingers slipped against his wrist reminded him childhood was bullshit and he had no interest in it.

“I meant more,” Hermione furrowed her brow and lips at once, like a petulant girl rather than a young lady. He liked that about her; how she didn’t try to be pretty, she simply was. “I… That is, you…” 

“Would you like to write down your proposal?”

Hermione dug her nails into his palm and he smirked. She was like a kitten and he’d endure her nails in far softer places, his back, his arms — 

“You’re usually so chatty, this is a treat.”

“I was trying to be nice,” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“By stealing my date?”

“I just thought it’d be nice to treat you,” Hermione dropped her chin, to look at the table.

“You spending time with me is a treat,” Draco said with a lazy smile. He had all the right things to say tucked beneath his tongue, but he meant it with her. It felt strange, to say such things and mean them, but she deserved to hear them. “You can take me out next time.”

“The thing is,” Hermione raised her voice as if to make it known she was about to give him a lecture. He wriggled down into his chair, an easy smirk on his lips. “I worry that I don’t do enough for you. I’d like to be worth caring about, and… I think, in part, I want to be able to take care of you, and to… To do things for you.”

“You’re more than worth caring about, just as you are,” Draco narrowed his eyes at her through the low light, her point lost to him. “What else could you want to do?”

“You haven’t… We haven’t — “ Hermione’s grip tightened, though his hands were used to vice-like pressure. “I do want to, but, just, in time, you know, not… Probably not at school.”

“Ah,” Draco made a small sound of recognition, which broke into a laugh as he picked apart her admission. “Wait, probably? Granger.”

Hermione glared at him through the dark.

Silence sat between them again, the stacks thick enough to eat what little sound they made. He watched her in the low light, their dorm several dozen paces away. If he wanted to, he could pick her up and whisk her to their dorm, to see how far he could get. But you don’t chase a girl like Hermione Granger for four months, or for years, to risk it on such a bold move. Instead, he remained with her, their hands intertwined and her face blushed in the shadows.

“I don’t need anything from you Hermione,” Draco swallowed so hard his jaw shifted. “I want things, of course. But need? I need you to trust me, to trust yourself… I don’t need anything more than what you want to give.”

"I just wanted to be clear."

"It's been less than a week," Draco swallowed around his words, unsure what to say. He dropped his voice in the dark, his focus intense. "I'm not going anywhere; I'm happy, so long as you are. I mean that more than you know."

Hermione’s expression shifted, between confused and relieved.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to cut open his guts to spill the black regret he felt about his life, but he couldn’t.

They trudged to bed and kissed goodnight, more like a promise than Draco had ever felt. She lingered, her fingers against his throat, her lashes brushed against his cheek. But she pulled back and he let her go. He couldn’t drop himself on her like that, couldn’t burden her with the ambiguity of his choices. She liked him as she knew him. To reveal more than she asked for would be stupid, cloying. She would realize what a thick, emotionally stunted prick she had shacked up with.

He watched her as she sneaked off for her bed, her socked feet across hardwood floors and the Slytherin jersey she’d pinched from him.

But he fell asleep with her on his lips. 

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Sunday — 3rd January, 1998.**

Draco had never thought much about what to wear on a date. He had a natural sense of style, cultivated by the years of education on… Everything, really. It wasn’t so much a pureblood tradition as it was one of wealth. He knew Muggles had a similar system to ensure that wealth begot wealth. He put on a blazer and slacks, along with a silk black shirt. Black, black, black… He was sure he didn’t own anything aside from black. Not that he wished to remedy this.

A brief flash cut through his vision as he thought about a rainbow wardrobe as if Luna Lovegood had been unleashed upon him.

He hadn’t seen Hermione that morning, but she’d left a note on her bed that she’d meet him at Hogsmeade. She had to attend to matters with Ginny and some other business, so he left it. They would meet at eleven in the morning in Hogsmeade, and it’d feel more like a real date as opposed to dorm mates out for lunch.

The strangeness of their living arrangement hadn’t hit him until this past week when they could feasibly share a bed if they wanted to. But he didn’t want to rush, to live in one another’s pocket any more than they had to. Rodger and Avery had shoved them together, repeatedly.

Draco stepped out of his dorm to see the back of Avery’s bright yellow head.

“Draco,” Avery said without looking. “It’s just us. Rodger’s off celebrating with Ravenclaw still.”

“He went out last night, without you?”

Avery remained quiet.

Draco stared at her, though she hadn’t turned to look at him. She didn’t seem as loud and bubbly as usual, which worried him. As if she might lunge over the back of the couch to attack him if he wasn’t careful.

“Rodger told me,” Avery said between her fingers. “About the letter. The game. You.”

Draco swallowed hard, his gaze leveled on Avery’s head.

“It was a shitty thing to do… Blackmail. I think he feels bad.” Avery picked at her nails as she removed dirt from beneath them. “I guess sorry on his behalf.”

“You’re not responsible for him,” Draco frowned at her.

“He’s my boyfriend,” Avery turned to look over the back of the couch at Draco. “Kinda cruel to do, too. To threaten to out a couple…” She had a strange look of distaste on her face.

“Do people know, about you two?”

Avery stared at her fingers.

Draco looked to the exit but hesitated for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Why be with him? If he makes you miserable.”

“He doesn’t make me miserable,” Avery waved a hand, her gaze drawn across the room. “We were close last year, Prefects, and… I liked him for a long time. But he’s always been in his brother’s shadow. Michael? Wanted to show he’s better at Quidditch, braver, I dunno. I think people know about us. Maybe not as clear as you and Hermione,” Avery laughed like a dog, a bark of a sound.

“I’m sorry.”

Avery turned again, her gaze heavy on him. “You’re sorry for that? Out of everything?” She shoved herself up to storm back to her dorm.

Draco searched the lounge but decided he didn’t have the time nor patience to decode her trauma for her. He shook his blazer into place and headed for Hogsmeade, a strange weight in his stomach. As if he’d arrive and Hermione would never turn up. Or that she wanted to call it off, that she’d kissed him and it’d been a mistake. That she didn’t want or need him, she didn’t have a use for him. That she wanted to go back to how it had been before, just friends.

Before things had been ruined.

Draco trudged to Hogsmeade with a warming charm ahead of him, to clear the path for his fine dragon leather hide shoes. By the time he’d arrived in Hogsmeade, his anxiety had mounted like bile in his throat. He was so stupid. This was a mistake.

And then he saw her in a sweet blue trench coat with her hair bunched into a hideous braid with his parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn' want to split the date up, so sorry for short chapter. ;;


	13. Chapter 13

**Sunday — 3rd January, 1998.**

“Draco,” Lucius greeted with his hand raised and his head tipped. The gesture framed Hermione for a split second before he dropped his hand onto her shoulder. “Look who we ran into.”

“Why are you here?” Draco asked, no concern spared for manners.

“Oh, so many things.” Narcissa looked towards the stores, her attention not settled until she spotted a small restaurant. “I have a meeting with McGonagall about the scholarship, not to mention the repairs, given we helped fund it. We were about to eat, if you’d like to join us…” She trailed off, a sweet smile offered to punctuate her point.

“Oh, we… That is, I don’t want to intrude,” Hermione dipped so as to escape Lucius’s grip which looked too tight to be friendly.

“Nonsense,” Lucius smiled at her as if he hadn’t tried to kill her in their past. “You are to be the face of our family.”

Hermione paled around her edges, her jaw tight beneath pale skin. “I wouldn’t say I’m the face of your family, that’s… That isn’t quite what the scholarship is.”

“No, of course not,” Narcissa took a step towards the restaurant with her hand extended to Lucius. “But it would be nice to chat if you aren’t busy. Draco?”

By most accounts, Draco was a model child. He grew from a brat to a respectable pillar of the family, and he worked hard to obey his parents. He cared for his mother and he afforded his father measured respect. It was through the sheer nature of blood that he didn’t draw his wand to threaten his father, but the allegiance thinned as Lucius bumped Hermione as he passed her.

“I’m taking Hermione out for lunch. As a date,” he added as if it were a knife laid against his father’s throat.

“I told you,” Lucius said with such weight it made Draco shift.

“Oh, you did not,” Narcissa made a face at Lucius as he passed, like a petulant sneer, but she smiled back to Hermione and Draco. “Sorry to keep you. Where are you going for lunch?”

Draco shifted his jaw, his death a slow crawl as Hermione inched closer to him. She had her hand deep in her pocket, her right pocket, and he knew her wand was in her grasp. He moved closer to his mother to stand between his parents and Hermione, though he hugged Narcissa to cover the movement. He lingered in the hug to scowl at Lucius who looked like he’d gotten blood on his favorite shoes. It was a look Draco had seen often, though it was usually kept for House Elves.

Those he deemed less than.

“Somewhere else,” Draco said against his mother’s cheek. He drew back, not a look given to Lucius beyond the narrowed glare. He snatched Hermione’s hand into his own, his right hand in her left. “A pleasure to see you both,” he said, though it was meant for his mother.

They said something back but Draco had already set off for anywhere else. He had wanted to take her to that restaurant as Hogsmeade wasn’t known for its size. It had a few small cafes, but the one place he’d wanted to go, of course… Of course, it’d been ruined for him. They’d had to rush their relationship out on the Quidditch field the day before by her gesture and now his parents knew. He hadn’t wanted to tell them, not really, but he couldn’t place why.

Or, he could, but he didn’t like the thought.

Hermione kept pace with him, her face was downturned and her hand like lightning in his grasp. She shook over and over, her fingers too tight against his. Her teeth were clenched so tight the tension showed on her face. It took several streets but they got space. Space away from the busy main street and the cobblestone square that met all the Hogwarts students who arrived. He pivoted Hermione to pull her close and she remained frozen stiff.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she laughed into the line of his throat. “I was reading, they saw me, they… Your mother wanted to say hello.”

“And my father was a cunt.”

“Draco!”

Draco frowned over her head. They’d stopped in a small section of Hogsmeade dedicated to the Dark Arts. It was dead, all the stores boarded up and the street empty. The snow was so fresh and untouched, it was like they were the only people here. He dipped his head to kiss her temple, her cheek, and her lips when she caught on. She allowed for each and lingered in the last kiss, her fingers still twitchy against his chin.

“I didn’t think you’d tell them,” she drew back, a confused smile on her face.

“Tell them?” Draco frowned at her. “Oh, about the… About being on a date?”

Hermione searched his face, a cool confusion stuck between her narrowed lids.

“Should I not have?”

“No, it’s fine that you did,” she drew her hands by her cheeks to tuck her hair behind her ears. “I rather wish we’d have been able to just go on a few dates, to work things out, then tell people.”

Draco searched her face for regret or refusal as if she were about to break off what fragile relationship they’d developed. It’d be easier now if she did that, rather than take the few dates to learn how empty and useless he was deep down. He remained beside her, his arms settled around her waist as he waited for her to finish her thought.

“Your father really hates me, doesn’t he.”

“My father hates anyone who isn’t my mother,” Draco reached up to touch her cheek, to smooth the warm red flesh with his icy thumb. He’d steal her warmth as much as she’d allow. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Hermione kept a solemn look on her face but her eyes slid shut. She remained with him in this quiet moment, as if this were enough. But it’s a moment of quiet, not a date, and he’d promised her a date. He had to impress her, to convince her that he was worth the time. He had talked himself up, he had worked to convince her to give him a chance — and now he had it, and it’d been ruined before it began.

“So,” Draco broke the silence, to capture her chin between his thumb and index finger. “Let’s go to that bookstore, the one I told you about.”

“For a date?”

“As part of the date.” Draco blinked at her, slow and long. “You can do many things during a date…”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him again and he goosed her nose, to which she laughed.

They walked in measured silence towards Quaesitum Vellum but it was a comfortable sort of quiet. The sort that he would look back on when he was alone, as being alone was inevitable for him. Perhaps that was the worst part about this moment, the assurance that it would end and he’d be left alone, the phantom of her warmth against his chest and his hands. He’d have to lose her eventually, to her choice or to the universe, but he had her, for now.

The bookstore wasn’t busy. It was painfully quiet, actually, so quiet that when they walked in there was no one else.

Hermione looked like she’d been given a set of matching diamond earrings for the sparkle and smile that appeared on her face.

And Draco followed her, at first. He watched her bustle from shelf to shelf, to touch the spines and inspect the tomes. She would pull one out, read a few lines, say something about how the writing wasn’t very clear or another book had done it better, then put it back. She did this, again and again, and he walked with her. He listened, sort of, but he was more invested in her movement. How she’d bounce when she found something pithy or how she’d wilt if an animal had been hurt. As if she expected things to be fair or kind in every book she touched.

He watched her as she read, as she picked apart lines, and he didn’t know what else to do.

But then she sat down with five or so books, books that she’d handed to Draco to hold, and they found a spot to sit.

Draco had picked up a book on Magical-Muggle history intersections, where wizards meddled in Muggle affairs. He didn’t know much about Muggles, he’d never cared to learn, but he had developed a curiosity about the world that had produced such a prolific woman. He skimmed it as something to do but his focus remained on her as she plucked her lips or snorted too loud. As if it was just her because it was in some ways.

“I can’t get them all,” she said over the top of an alternative history on the goblin wars.

“Why not?”

Hermione closed the book for effect, to point at the cost. Each book was around ten Galleons.

A stupid move on her part.

“If only you had a filthy rich boyfriend, hm,” Draco exhaled.

“Boyfriend?”

Draco felt as if he’d strained all the muscles in his neck at once. For the first time that afternoon, he didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He stared at the section of his book about a cataclysmic potion spillage that caused a massive crater to form where a village used to be. This was back in the fifteenth century, and for a split second, Draco related to a crater. Just, a massive empty mistake spilled words, spilled intent.

“Are we… That is, are we? Dating?”

Draco gave a dopey shrug before he shook himself out. They’d seated themselves in plush armchairs at the back of the store, and no one else had passed by in the hour they’d spent alone. He was so thankful for this isolation.

“I’d like it,” Hermione pressed on, her head dipped into the corner of his vision. “If we were dating, that is.”

“Quite. Good. We are then.” Draco frowned. “Perfect.”

Hermione laughed a little too hard for his liking. “It’s sweet how shy you get sometimes.”

“I… What does that even mean,” Draco snapped, a little angrier than he meant. “Sweet, shy…”

But Hermione watched him with private amusement as if he were the best play in London. “I’m not quite sure why. I’d like to learn, and I might in time, but you pretend to be confident quite a lot. You always have. But then something will put you out of your area of expertise and you get very flustered.”

“You’re far more easily flustered than I am, Granger.”

“I really don’t,” Hermione laughed again as if she were so much better at this than he was.

Draco slapped his book shut, to drop it onto the end table between their armchairs. He got to his feet to approach her, his hands placed onto the arms of her armchair. She was boxed in by him, by design, and he dropped his head to rest his mouth by her ear.

“So you’ve never been flustered when I’ve ground against you?” Draco caught her chin to press a kiss to her ear, to her cheek, his posture drawn back to kiss her once. He kept it brief and gentle, far less than he’d have liked, but his point had been made.

Draco had never been so pleased to see Gryffindor red, not as her face glowed in the dark. He gathered her books, including the one she had clutched like a talisman against him. Her hands remained stiff around the shape of the book, her knuckles all right angles. He practically pranced off to the front desk, satisfied beyond measure. The clerk remained slow and dawdling with their words, but he’d dropped a handful of gems that equated to eighty or so Galleons. He didn’t bother with change or all that tripe.

But he had bought the books before she’d come to her senses.

“You can’t,” Hermione exhaled her face as red as before. “You can’t just… Just buy fifty Galleons of books for…”

“Strange,” Draco lifted the bag to inspect it. “I appear to have done just that. Hmm.”

Hermione hissed through her teeth as her lips drew back. It was a brutal smile, somewhere between angry and excited. He would be terrified if he actually cared to live.

“Lunch was meant to be part of the date, so,” Draco gestured to the door, his brow arched at her.

Hermione stared at him, her mouth reduced to a fine point. She had that calculating look behind her eyes, the sort of look she got before she did something awful. But he remained still as he worried he’d overstepped the boundaries. His cool amusement melted as he watched her, afraid he’d gone too far or said too much. It had been aggressive, perhaps more than he’d meant. Bile teased at the back of his throat as he realized he’d done too much, it was too much — the books, the comment, he’d done something wrong.

The distance between them vanished as she made a line for the door. But she hesitated, to yank him down to her level.

“You’re flustered whenever I’ve gotten you hard,” she said, her voice a hot whisper. “I can make things much harder for you, so don’t forget that.” She pressed on past him as if it were nothing.

Draco touched his chest as if afraid his heart might tenderize itself against his ribcage. He didn’t know if that was a promise or a threat but he was down for whatever he had come for him. To die by her hand would be the best way to go. He jogged a few steps after her, his hands in his pockets and her bag of books on either arm.

“You really didn’t need to buy all five. One of them wasn’t even that good.”

“You can tell me how terrible it is over lunch,” Draco kept the bags though she offered her hand out. “I love it when my girlfriends complain.”

“You’re going to love me then,” Hermione gave him a tart smile.

Draco stared at her like a rock was lodged in his throat.

Love.

Love her.

Yeah.

No.

Yeah?

Oh Merlin.

The Sizzle Spoon was a simple restaurant that had dozens of small tables laid around in an open area. Most tables seated two people, with two large, long tables for groups. But Draco and Hermione settled for the front window as Hermione wanted to watch people pass by. She liked to sit in the light and away from the fire. Draco wanted to be with her, so it was easy to accommodate. There were several other small groups around, but they kept to themselves.

His parents weren’t here, which made him shed a single thankful smile.

Lunch sat between them much the same as any other time they had together. He listened to her speak about assignments and she tore apart several books she’d read at the Vellum. He let her speak because in truth, he didn’t have much to say. He never felt like he did, anyway, he was happy to act as a cauldron for her to pour herself into. She was magic on her own, able to do so much, and he was just… There. He hadn’t always felt so boring but it was better than the alternatives.

He didn’t want to talk about last year or his Seventh year at Hogwarts. But that’s all he ever had on the top of his mind, like a cloak he couldn’t ditch.

“What do you want to do?” Hermione said, which slapped him out of his reverie.

“Do..? Right now?” A smile broke across his face.

“No, I mean, in the future.”

“Survive,” Draco said with a low snort. He picked at his steak which he’d finished most of. Hermione had a rather dreadful-looking salad, but she’d refused to complain about it. He’d given her a part of his steak and some chips, which she’d taken gratefully.

“Draco,” Hermione said like a warning.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“We have six months until we finish.”

“I’m aware,” Draco stabbed several chips though he didn’t eat them.

“If you tell me, I could help you.” Hermione set her utensils aside.

“What do you want to do?” Draco shot back, as a way to cut off her questions.

“I want to work in the Department of Magical Creatures to reform their attitudes to those who are magical and non-human. They’re still people, just not human.” She rattled off the answer as if she had read it from a flashcard.

Draco felt lodged between the urge to tell her that it was a lousy waste of her time and to support her. The Ministry wasn’t where he saw her, but in truth, he didn’t see her working at all. He pictured her in a Library, enjoying herself. But then again, she enjoyed work. He just wanted her to be happy, in whatever way she could make that happen for herself.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know, Hermione.”

Hermione flexed her brows upward as she collected her fork back up.

“Forgive me for not having a ten-year plan on hand,” he said with a laugh.

“I assumed your parents would’ve guided you into something. Politics, or… Or Quidditch.”

Draco’s expression shifted, somewhere between distaste and disappointment. “I doubt I’ll be permitted near anything resembling power and I’m shit at Quidditch.”

“Don’t say that.”

Draco set his knife and fork down, careful not to let them clink on the plate. He didn’t look at her, not as he fidgeted with their position, to make sure they were laid straight at twelve o’clock on the plate.

“I think with your family name and your financial background, you’d be instrumental in changing the attitudes of the pureblood community. Especially within the Ministry.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

A flash of fear cut through Hermione’s determination. She sat back as if he’d slapped her.

“I don’t want to be in Politics, period. Of course, I want to change pureblood bias,” Draco swallowed hard, his gaze latched to her face.

“You’re lucky you know, that you get to decide if you want to do that or not.” Hermione looked across the restaurant, her face turned away from him.

“I’d just make it worse.”

Hermione smiled at him, that same flicker of distance between them through her gaze. “Whatever you say,” she shook her head, that polite smile like a death sentence.

Draco worried his signet ring with his index finger, round and round his knobbly thumb. He didn’t want to step into Politics. He never wanted to, it had been his father’s ambition for him. It felt strange to have Hermione sit across from him, to demand that he do the same for the opposite reasons. His father wanted to perpetuate the blood biases and Hermione was dedicated to tearing them down. He was a pawn between them, a token gesture.

He would be used, either way, it was up to him to decide how.

“Like I said,” Draco repeated, his voice thin. “I just want to survive, Hermione.”

By the time they got back to Hogwarts, it was late. She kissed him once at the restaurant, then a second time when they arrived back in their dorm. It hadn’t been a fight, not exactly. But there was a reproachful weight in her gaze and gentleness to her touch. He clung to the fire she’d slung at him in the book store. But then it’d devolved into their stark differences. She was selfless, as she wanted to give up all of her life for the future of magical creatures, little beasts she’d never even known.

And all Draco wanted to do was survive.

But she smiled at him as she trotted past, a flicker of toothpaste in the corner of her mouth. He caught her to kiss her, the taste of spearmint so sudden he’d felt like he was on fire. But she slipped away and into bed, and he hoped it’d been good enough. It hadn’t, of course, but maybe she would be kind and allow him a second chance. He set her books onto her desk and climbed into bed, his chest tight and his sleep restless.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Tuesday — 5th January, 1998.**

“As you’re all aware,” Snape said, his voice heavy. “You will be graded on your theory and your practical work in equal measure.”

Draco zoned out as Snape berated the class for their awful essays. He didn’t have to pay attention, he was a talented potioneer and essays were a piece of piss. All you needed to do was pay attention and try, as well as have private tutors all your life, and it was easy. He smiled a cruel smile as the Hufflepuff girl next to him sobbed over her essay. The parchment was more red marks than black.

Hermione slapped his shoulder.

“I will be rearranging pairs, for the sake of spreading what few acceptable students we have around so that you may all learn from their example.”

“But — ”

“Malfoy.” Snape looked across the room. “You’ll be with Harrison.”

Draco stared at Snape as if he’d been told he was expelled. He looked at Hermione who shared his confusion, but she was more duty-bound than he was. She had an incorrigible need for teachers to appreciate her and praise her, so she packed up without another word. Draco watched her stand, to wait for her reassignment.

This girl, Harrison, floated over. She reminded him of someone but he couldn’t imagine why. There was a bigness to her eyes and her skin was ragged from blemishes. A pang of pity and annoyance mixed into his chest as she sat down, her head dropped and her shoulders hunched. She was tiny, far too skinny, and he picked at her with his eyes by default. It was just how he saw people, as an assortment of things to be exploited if they pissed him off.

“I’m Melody,” she said, her voice like a rasp. “Hi.”

Draco didn’t say anything.

Instead, he watched as Hermione got seated with some absolutely stupid looking Hufflepuff boy with braces. He was the Beater for the Hufflepuff team. But Draco didn’t know his name or anything about him, just that he wanted to kill him with his bare hands.

Snape continued to pair off the students as if this would fix their abysmal grades.

Why was he being punished?

What had he done?

(Aside from the obvious... All that torture and assisted kidnapping. Not to mention a habit of bullying and blackmailing people.)

(Aside from those things, obviously.)

“I think,” Melody said, her voice like a death march. “We need to make this boil cure, right?”

Draco decided he’d capture this Hufflepuff boy and lock him in a cupboard. Maybe he’d visit to provide food and water, but it’d depend on the boy’s attitude. He watched the boy touch Hermione’s shoulder and laugh, as Hermione giggled.

“Okay.”

“What Melody? What?”

“I was just,” Melody looked at him, her eyes wider than before with tears at the corners like her life was so difficult. “We’re… We’re meant to…”

“Meant to what? Be insufferable in five seconds flat?” Draco turned to glare at her.

Melody let out a thick sob as soon as he looked at her. She sprinted for the door in seconds, her supplies abandoned.

Their class had fallen silent at her exit. She had been so dramatic about it as if he’d ruined her life. Draco heaved a sigh into the air, his arms slack by his sides as Snape watched the door. He heard Snape approach, to glare down at Draco.

“Detention, for disrupting class. Tonight.”

Draco sneered up at Snape, who moved on without another word. Melody didn’t return for the rest of the class and Draco was left to create their potion on his own. He didn’t even know what house the girl was in, or why she’d broken out into sobs over a joke. People were so sensitive about the stupidest of things. But as he worked, he picked at her in his mind. Her face, over and over, about why she struck him as familiar.

And he remembered her, a girl who’d had potions tested on her Seventh year.

They’d poured potion after potion down her throat and onto her face. She’d been covered in boils and bumps and acne. The Carrows had used the students as a means to test spells and potions alike for the Dark Lord. And her bright, wide eyes flashed at him the dark of the dungeons. He’d been the one to do it to her; he was the reason her skin was so rough and her voice was so rasped. He didn’t even watch as Hermione left for dinner. She didn’t say goodbye and he wasn’t surprised.

Instead, he was left with Snape, in the bowels of Hogwarts.

“I don’t see why I got the detention when she’s the one who disrupted the class.”

Snape lingered by the doorway, his hand flat against the wood. A glow shot around the door frame, white light around the edges as a clear shimmer set in.

Draco flexed his brows upward, his arms crossed.

“I’ve been asked to speak with you regarding your decision to endanger Hermione.”

“Private conversations between a Professor and a student about romantic relationships seem rather questionable,” Draco exhaled as he got out of his seat. He didn’t fear Snape, not as he had as a child. He had been so terrified of the bat-like man, who prowled the Malfoy Manor like he did Hogwarts. He saw Snape for the man he really was, a broken fool who tried to play too many sides of the war. The thick scar across his throat gave that away.

“Potter reached out to me,” Snape said, his voice thin. “He asked if there was ill-intent aimed towards Hermione. Given your family’s interest in her out of the blue — ”

“I’m sorry,” Draco cut in, his hands raised. “When did you become Potter’s seeing-eye dog?”

Snape frowned through the shadows.

“So glad you two have become so chummy what with the war and all,” Draco drawled.

“Hermione was given Head Girl for a reason,” Snape began with heavy emphasis. “As much as you were made Head Boy.”

“She said as much.”

Snape’s lips twitched into an ugly smile.

Draco felt his skin crawl as if he’d been left out of a party. He looked to the door then back to Snape, his brow set. “Just spit it out.”

“The staff and the Ministry were worried you’d returned to Hogwarts in the interest of retrieving anything the Dark Lord left behind, or in finishing what he started. They were worried that, given access to fellow students or kept unchecked, you’d revert to your cruelty of Seventh year.”

“Everyone — my cruelty?” Draco felt his voice rise against his will. “Everyone in that year had to do terrible things or… Or be punished. I didn’t do what I did by choice.”

“You’ll find this a hard point to argue with people. When you play your role well enough, you are mistaken for what you pretend to be,” Snape said, that air of mystery cloaked over his words. “Hermione was tasked with being Head Girl to keep an eye on you. Hence the separate dorms… Hence the dual Head positions.”

Draco blinked through the dark at Snape, his shoulders tense beyond words.

“And so Potter was concerned that you and your family wanted to punish her for her cooperation with the Order’s wishes, to have you monitored. That you were manipulating her into a position where she’d be easily taken out, should she need to be removed — ”

“This is insane,” Draco stepped closer to Snape, to square his shoulders. “She’s not been keeping an eye on me, not…” His throat tightened as he thought back to their first few days. She had chased him around, insisted on proximity. She was his partner in Potions and she’d been with him in every class. There was hardly a moment he’d been away from her in those early days. They had patrols together, which McGonagall insisted upon.

She never went to Hogsmeade, not unless he went — not at first.

Draco felt his heartbeat in his head.

“Aurors have found several dossiers on her, of plans to remove her as an issue given her proximity to you. You were seen together at the banquet and in passing. Your intimacy has become something of a sore spot for the devout purebloods…”

Draco stared at the jars along the walls.

“I suppose my question is this,” Snape tipped his head to the side. “Were you aware she’s become a focus for what few Death Eaters that remain?"

“Just my father,” Draco said, a slow admission drawn from low in his chest. “But he was cryptic at best.”

_“But your attention and your pedigree shed light on her. Sometimes it is better to stay in the dark.”_

“I would recommend you speak with her about this,” Snape said with idle distaste. 

“Why tell me all this?” Draco snapped.

“Get out.” Snape looked over Draco once with the closest thing to paternal warmth that Draco had ever seen from the man. He looked as if he cared, which struck Draco as strange. He had no reason to care about Draco or his affection for Hermione. He wasn’t involved in it, he had no idea what it meant to love someone who was targeted for their blood. The word ‘love’ struck him low in the stomach as it had before.

But he was too angry to stress about that.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little taste of 💦💦
> 
> Minor CW: Check the endnote for details.

**Saturday — 9th January, 1998.**

It had been four days since Snape had issued his cryptic warning about Hermione. Draco wasn’t sure if it was an attempt to ward him off the girl or to prompt Draco into action. All it had done was leave him confused. Things were too good for him, which was never a good sign. He’d had an easy life in his youth, but that had evaporated years ago.

Now, he expected nothing and received less than that.

Quidditch practice pushed him to suffer as it had in the past. He attended as a favor to Blaise and little else. The team was pissed at him for the loss and he was pissed about that, too. But there wasn’t much that could be done about it now. He had little else in his life, aside from Hermione and what little joy he got from homework. Which was to say, none, except for the satisfaction that he was cleverer than the rest of the students in their year.

Except for Hermione, but she’s always been an exception.

“Hermione,” he said into the open air. He was reclined on his bed in his most casual clothes, which were black slacks and a black turtleneck. He didn’t own loungewear despite how much he lounged.

Hermione’s head poked around her divider, in a way that made him want to grab her by her shoulders.

“Come,” he patted the bed beside him.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I won’t keep you for long,” Draco broke into a rich smirk at her apprehension. “I promise.”

Hermione disappeared behind her divider with a heavy sigh. The sound of paper and cloth fussed through the air before she approached, her arms crossed and her expression apprehensive.

“May I ask you something?” He turned his attention away as he set his novel onto his bedside table. He adjusted the angle of it as an excuse not to look at her.

“What is it? I’ve got a meeting this afternoon about changes to the First year welcoming ceremony. I’m trying to convince them to let children attend a week early to get used to the basics of household magic,” Hermione babbled as if he’d not heard her speak about it half a dozen times. It was a good idea for those students who hadn’t grown up around magic, to learn how to do simple tasks such as brush their teeth or clean their clothes with magic. It was something he’d never had to specifically learn, though he could see the merit.

“When did you learn that Death Eaters were after you?”

Hermione blanched.

Draco tipped his head to the side as if it would provide a better perspective on her honesty.

“What do you mean?”

“A reliable source brought it to my attention,” Draco scooted himself back, so he was seated against his headboard. “That you’re being targeted by Death Eaters, for several reasons. Your proximity to Harry, of course, your place as a recognizable Muggleborn… Your intimacy with me.”

Hermione frowned, her legs curled up onto the bed.

“How long have you known?”

Hermione dropped her attention to the bed, but he didn’t let her linger there. He reached out to capture her jawline, to bring her face back up so he could look at her. The temptation floated in him to pry the information from her, but he’d never forgive himself.

He remained, gentle but stern.

“I’ve always been a target for them,” she said, non-committal.

“Bullshit.”

“Does it really matter Draco?”

Draco stared at her like she’d asked to burn down the Library. He pivoted off the bed and dropped his hand from her chin. He stood like a bottled storm, still on the outside while grey swirls swallowed what clarity was left. He didn’t pace, he refused to let himself do that. He stood in silence, frustrated with her as much as he was with the rest of the world.

“Before school started again,” Hermione said from behind him, her tone cautious. “We just know that they wanted to have some kind of revenge against Harry, and I fit the bill — Muggleborn worked against Voldemort…” She trailed off.

“Did you think I was involved.”

Hermione remained silent.

Draco turned to look at her, her face absent of any grand emotion. She looked tired, in truth. Tired and miserable. She remained seated on the edge of his bed like a bag of sand, her shoulders hunched and her head dipped. It wasn’t much to go off of, for or against his question. But she was being elusive, that much he could recognize.

Her lips parted but she remained silent. She gathered her legs up to cross them, her hands settled in her lap.

“I wasn’t involved,” Draco said as if he were on trial. “Just so you know.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t even know about it. Any of it.”

Hermione picked at her nails.

“But you worked that out, didn’t you. Given you were tasked to watch me — weren’t you?”

“I…” Hermione’s face strained. “The Order asked me to keep an eye on you initially before school even started. And I did. But it was apparent rather early on you weren’t involved in any Death Eater activity. I told them as much, repeatedly.”

Draco smiled so wide his cheeks hurt. He laughed, loud and from low in his chest. It made sense. He was never meant to have good things in his life. He was a Death Eater, he had tried to kill Dumbledore and failed. He’d assisted in his kidnapping and her torture. He was complicit is so much violence and death. Even if his hands were figuratively clean, they remained dirty. It was through the sheer virtue of wealth that he wasn’t in Azkaban alongside his father in matched manacles.

“I worked it out in around a week,” Hermione added, her voice louder to accommodate his volume. “I don’t see why you’re laughing about it.”

“It just makes sense, you being so pedantic about me, about patrols, chasing me around — was any of it real? Or was I just a fun puzzle for you?”

Hermione stared at him like he’d shanked her and all he could feel was numb.

“Forget it,” Draco dismissed, his hands raised. “You can tell the Order you wasted your time. I’m a dead end, I’m not out to kill you. Maybe go chase my father down next, he’ll probably know more.”

“I didn’t waste my time,” she said, her voice small. “It wasn’t like that.”

Draco’s throat tensed at the tears around her words.

“The Order tasked me with keeping an eye on you. It became clear you weren’t part of any Death Eater plans, and I told them as much. That was around mid-September. By the end of October, I gave up on that altogether. I felt awful about it. You were being genuinely caring and kind to me, and you… I know you went through a lot, with your mother, with everything last year, so — ” Hermione drew a breath in as she sat on the edge of his bed. “This isn’t some Order ploy. I developed feelings for you, and I know you have feelings for me, too. I’m sorry for treating you with measured supervision at their request. But I don’t regret it, given where we’ve ended up.”

Draco had expected this to go differently. He expected her to deny it, to yell or to scream or to be defensive. But he hadn’t expected her to own it or admit to it. Even less, he didn’t expect her to apologize. That wasn’t how these things usually went. He watched her from his vantage above her, as his jaw tightened and his chest ached.

When she looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, he cracked. He dropped down to scoop her up, to bury his face in her neck and hold her close. He had often thought she would unwind if she were fucked just right as if all her tension could be loosened by a good shag, but he had been wrong. She fell apart against him, wracked with deep sobs and boneless. She cried so often he was used to it, but this was different. She didn’t feel as afraid as she usually did, not half-hidden or reluctant. She scrabbled closer to him, her arms tight around his neck as he shifted her, to sit on the bed beside her.

It wasn’t a good thing to hear, that he’d been an assignment for her. He was pissed about it on her behalf, truthfully. She didn’t deserve to be used as a pawn to scrabble closer to a dead-end lead. She could have been tasked to chase down Goyle or some other idiot, and he hated to think how it’d have gone differently. She had told him to his face there had been a reason for him to be there. And he had suspected her that first week, suspected that she’d been after him. Perhaps he’d gleaned it from her eyes or from her proximity.

And yet he didn’t care.

She could kill him and he’d still love her.

This was the problem with Draco; he didn’t know how to do anything by halves. He was the best or he didn’t try. He had every book in a series or none at all. He had Hermione Granger altogether or he never wanted to see her again.

But he’d lost that option as she caught her breath and breathed against the thin flesh of his throat. She nuzzled into him as she tended to do as if she couldn’t get close enough by mere contact alone. She wasn’t the same girl who’d shot out of her seat to answer questions. But he wasn’t the same boy who’d mimicked the gesture to see her blush. Instead, he caught her face to draw her head back, a half-there smile on his lips as he looked down at her.

“I wish you didn’t cry so much,” he snorted.

“As if I enjoy it,” Hermione snapped her hands to her face, to wipe at her tears. “I hate it too.”

“I don’t hate it,” he caught her wrists to watch her face.

Hermione’s lashes were stuck together by her tears, her face red and her cheeks wet.

“I can find out who’s after you if it’d help.”

“No! Don’t put yourself in danger over it.”

“I wouldn’t be in danger,” Draco laughed, his grip adjusted on her wrists. He thumbed the thin flesh of her wrists to which she smiled sheepishly.

“The Order is on it.”

“The Order’s full of idiots,” Draco dropped her wrists and caught her chin. He kissed her once, softly.

Hermione frowned at him.

“If they’ve been investigating it since August, and it’s January… I could find out who it is and take care of it in a weekend, tops.”

“Draco,” Hermione said with a warning tone in her voice.

“You’re right, I could knock it out on a Thursday afternoon — ”

“Or, you leave it to the Order.” Hermione waved her hands at her face, which alleviated some of the redness. She smoothed her hands through her hair and adjusted herself, which was all for nothing. Draco caught her by the waist and slung her to the bed, to climb over her. The redness she lifted returned with gusto, her face as red as the trim of her robes. She didn’t move against him, given he was between her thighs. It wasn’t an unknown position for them, but he’d never grabbed her without warning.

“I say this with full respect,” Draco caught her chin again, to slide it down around her throat. The pressure was gentle enough, though his thumb and index finger toyed at her pulse points. “You’re mine. And I do not take kindly to people hunting down what’s mine.”

Hermione stared at him with such ferocity, he thought she might kill him.

Which, as he’d clarified, he’d be fine with.

“That’s rather archaic, to claim someone as yours as if they lack agency — ”

Draco dropped closer to her, to angle his mouth by her ear. “The disclaimer of perceived ownership being a consensual two-way agreement that’s intended for sexual gratification ruins the mood when you say it every time, wouldn’t you agree?” He graveled his voice against her ear, as low and husky as he could while still audible.

Hermione gave a sharp nod.

“So you’re mine, with the caveat?”

Hermione’s lips parted with an audible pop. She sucked in a deep breath, to which he tried not to laugh.

“This isn’t really,” Draco sat back to lock eyes with her. “This is usually sort of a fun thing, not an actual haggling session.”

“I will be yours,” Hermione said with measured assurance. “If you’re equally mine.”

“Well, obviously.”

Hermione squared her jaw, her eyes narrowed up at him.

“I’ll have a contract drawn up to that effect,” Draco laughed to himself in a small, shuddered way.

“Contract?” She jumped so hard her thighs snapped around him.

Draco grabbed her face between his hands, to gently, so gently, shake her. “You need to relax, my love.”

“I am relaxed!”

Draco rolled his eyes and bent down to kiss her. He allowed a few seconds of idle pressure before he tongued past her lips, in search of the moans she kept trapped low inside her. She wasn’t easy per se, not usually. But when he managed to get her like this, on her back, exposed, she sang like a choir of one. He settled his hand onto the bed beside her while the other dropped to her thigh. That was a mistake, he didn’t have to be as clever as her to work it out.

Because it’d been two weeks since they’d first kissed. Two weeks since he’d gotten a taste of her, which he should never have had. And he enjoyed these moments, where they’d kiss and test one another, but… It was cruel to do this to himself, to throw himself into such a situation with her, aware that it’d remain no more than a kiss. But he was angry at her, he had been since Wednesday, and they’d worked through it. It seemed fair to capitalize on post-argument intimacy, as it was something he was so used to.

Their relationship was centered on her and what she wanted. That was how he’d wanted it to be, as he… His body had been forfeited long ago. There was nothing she could do to him that would upset him. She was too sweet to abuse him anyway, it wasn’t in her nature. But he was used to more, much faster, and he was afraid he’d rush. He’d rush over how she’d shiver against his fingertips or that tint of sex in the air when it’d go too far.

Because it’d always hit that point, where he would be too much.

He’s too much for her.

And yet his hand lingered on her thigh, against the denim she’d decided to wear. His nails dug into it and her muscles rippled against the pressure. But she didn’t panic or shove him away, as she tended to do. Instead, she grabbed at him, to bring him closer, and that was worse. He had it all wrong.

She’s too much for him.

She dragged him against her, her hips rocked against his, and he wanted to bite her. Not hard, not out of anger, out of something else he couldn’t explain. He nipped her lip and drew back, to bury his face into her throat. It was as close to hiding from her as he could manage. He wanted her, he’d wanted her since their first Potions class when he’d watched her suck brown sugar off her finger. He lost himself in that moment, that brief second of contact, as the hand on her thigh shifted to her hip.

He trusted her, as much as he hoped she trusted him. That she’d stop him if he did something wrong, that she’d speak up. Because she might have her thick denim and the plush of her thighs and arse but all he has is thin slacks and a desperate need for her. As much of her as she’d allow him. And so he pressed against her, as she’d done before but slower, with more intent. And he needed his face to be buried in her throat because his eyes just about rolled into his head and he’d quite sure she’d panic at the sight.

But she’d learn.

It isn’t better this way, the tease of pressure, the pantomime fucking, but he’d take it for now. He hadn’t expected to have her at all, so he’d take this two weeks in. It felt so decadent, the heat of her against him even through her jeans and all he wanted to do was bury himself in her, or his face into her cunt and life is just a cruel fucking bitch isn’t it. He shifted back from her, to gain a fraction of space from her. Because as nice as it felt to grind against her, she’d not spoken outside of her stifled moans.

But this is even worse.

Her hair is splayed all around her like a frame of dark wheat. Her eyes are half-glazed and barely open and she looked about ready to yell at him.

“What’s wrong?”

Draco laughed again, silently, his weight settled back onto his heels as he stared down at her. Her thighs remained forced apart by him. His hand was each knee as he’d sat back, to steady himself and keep her in place.

He’s curious.

So very curious.

“Having fun?” Draco asked, a tart smile on his lips.

“I — yes? Thank you?”

Draco couldn’t stop the laugh before it ricocheted out of him.

“I meant, yes, I am, shut up,” Hermione laughed along with him, her hands over her face.

“The word ‘adorable’ has never been in my vocabulary as much as when I’m with you,” Draco eased out of his laughter, his gaze fixed down on her.

“That isn’t good, though,” she parted her fingers to peek up at him. “To be adorable in this sort of situation.”

“Well,” Draco eased his right hand down the inside of her thigh as he toyed with nonchalance. “You have an adorable moan… An adorable blush…”

“My point exactly.”

“I would wager you’d look rather adorable bent over a desk.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione’s voice inched up as his hand dropped closer to her cunt. Not that he could do much of anything, given the denim.

“You can beg, that’s up to you.”

Hermione hissed through her teeth as she snapped her hands to her face again.

“Are you okay?”

“Fantastic.”

Draco stopped, anxiety bubbled beneath the surface. His hand lingered on her inner thigh for a moment before he dropped it to her stomach, to fidget with the buttons. It was all buttons he noted, which was a little annoying. He hated jeans. She needed a whole wardrobe of beautiful dresses that he could tear apart. Though if worse came to worst, he could slice the denim off and buy her a new pair later, or repair it — 

But he flattened his hand, to pat her stomach.

“Are you actually fantastic?”

Hermione swallowed so hard he felt her body shift. “I just feel stupid. Being adorable. Or… I don’t know. I’m just terrible at this. I know I am.”

Draco didn’t even know what to say to that.

“I’m not — I’m never going to be all sultry on a bed in lingerie, you know, it’s not… I don’t know how to do this. People have told me, Ginny that is, Luna tried, but you can imagine Luna and sex advice, it isn’t — anyway, no, my point is,” Hermione took a deep breath, her arms sprawled above her head. “I’m terrible at this, and I do want you quite a lot, and I know you want me, I’m not stupid, I can… I can tell.”

“You can tell?” Draco looked down at where he was currently wedged against her, harder than he’d been in a long while. “What could have possibly given that away.”

“Shut up,” Hermione laughed low from the back of her throat. “I just wish I was… Better, at this, for your sake.”

“I have some heartbreaking news for you, Hermione,” Draco said as he shifted down closer to her, to peck her on the lips.

Hermione shrank back, inches between their faces.

“This isn’t an exam, this isn’t a test. There are no right answers, so long as you want me and I want you,” Draco searched her face, the edge of snark lost for those few seconds. “It’s just something you do until you work it out. So what if you’re clumsy or you’re terrible, it’s not as if the world will end.”

“I don’t want to be terrible.”

“Trust me, no one does. No one worth being with anyway,” Draco shifted back, his eyes narrowed at her through the late afternoon light. “Let me put it this way; how could you possibly fail at sex?”

“Aside from pregnancy or disease…” Hermione worried her lip with her finger, which failed to help the situation. “I just don’t feel like I’m very good at this… I’m adorable, as you said. There isn’t much to me, is there.”

“Hermione,” Draco said in a stern voice. “I’d have fucked you back in Fifth year if you weren’t such a swot, so don’t play at there being nothing to you.”

“Draco!” Hermione’s mortified shock would remain with Draco until he died. So worth it. “You hated me.”

“My point exactly. If I wanted to fuck you when I hated you, there must be something to you,” Draco looked over her, trapped between a physical example and empathy. He didn’t want to rush things with her, he wanted to understand her. The last thing he wanted to do was to terrify her or push her too hard. But there was something in her apprehension that kept him away. He might hurt her if he treated her with the empty pursuit of a climax.

“I do… I would want to,” Hermione said, unconvinced.

“But?”

“I told you, I’m broken,” Hermione said with a laugh.

“Did someone tell you that?” Draco asked as a clarity struck through him.

Hermione paled beneath him.

“You said it about Ron, how you didn’t really feel for him in a deep enough way to fuck him — which is fair, let’s be real, he’s a walking carrot — but he didn’t say that to you, did he?”

“No,” Hermione didn’t meet his eye. “Not at first.”

“Hermione,” Draco dropped down closer to kiss her, once, twice, his hands cupped her cheeks. “You aren’t broken.”

“McLaggen seemed to think so.” She froze, her tone too idle. She hadn’t meant to say it, given how her gaze snapped to him.

“McLaggen?” Draco strained but the memory popped into him against his will. He’d seen Hermione and McLaggen together for Slughorn’s party, though the specifics were lost to him. All he could recall was how she’d looked rather pretty. So pretty he’d not realized it was her at first. But that whole year was a bleached memory now, given how many times Voldemort stared at the memories as if to verify his work.

“I didn’t want to pursue things, with him, but he was — he didn’t do anything. It wasn’t like that, he was just, persistent, and he stopped when I said no — ”

“What did you two do, exactly?” Draco asked with a cool tone.

“Well, he tried to do things for me, but it was incredibly uncomfortable and I really did not want him to touch me, but he misread the signals. I don’t really… I don’t consider it anything, but he really tried.”

Draco’s focus blurred.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just me, being terrible at this, I’m just — ”

“You aren’t terrible at this,” Draco adjusted her so she was seated beside him. He caught her cheeks and kissed her, once, twice, murder thrummed through his veins. “And you aren’t broken.”

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Hermione said, her voice crackled. “He just tried to, and he stopped when I said no.”

“Come here,” Draco gathered her to his chest, though all he wanted to do was Apparate to the Ministry and execute a manhunt. But he stayed with her, with her cuddled to his chest and his gaze still so blurred he could only see color. He threaded his fingers through her hair, over and over, his arm wrapped around her.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course,” Draco said, his voice thin.

“It’s not that big of a deal. When I told Ron about it, he huffed and puffed, like he was mad that I’d thought about another boy when he’d done things with Lavender without my concern but — I just didn’t want to tell you, because Ron seemed to agree that I’m not very good at this — at being sexual, it’s just not who I am.”

“But you want to have sex?”

“I… I would like to try,” Hermione said as if she might cry from embarrassment. “Not right now, but eventually.”

“So they’re both absolute idiots,” Draco rolled his eyes.

Hermione made a noncommittal sound.

“Hermione,” Draco shifted her, to look her in the eye. “I want you to hex me boneless if I ever make you uncomfortable.”

“Then you’d be boneless often,” Hermione said with a laugh.

“I mean it,” Draco’s jaw sharpened, tight around his words. “I want you, I — I really do. But I want you to feel safe with me above all else.”

“I trust you.”

“All the more reason to hex me if I fuck up,” Draco said, his head tipped. “You aren’t broken. You’ve just dealt with a lot of fucking scum.”

“Draco,” Hermione said her tone tense. She was seated beside him on the bed, still tucked close to him though she seemed so small. She was always so small, it made him want to bundle her up and put her somewhere safe.

“If I see McLaggen,” Draco narrowed his eyes at her. “I will kill him.”

“Draco,” Hermione repeated, her hands latched to his wrists. “You will not.”

“I’ll make it look like an accident. No one will know.”

“I won’t write you if you go to Azkaban,” Hermione said with a tart smile.

“I’ll die happy knowing I took care of him.”

Hermione’s gaze dropped to the floor in front of them, her hands worried in her lap.

“Was everything else okay?” Draco asked, unsure how to navigate the conversation. “That is, I didn’t do anything just now..?”

“No, that was quite nice,” Hermione looked back to him, a bright wide smile on her face. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to say thank you for rutting.”

“I mean thank you for caring about me,” Hermione snapped out a laugh before she caught it, her face red. “I know, I’m sorry I’m so awkward.”

“Usually I’m quite ah,” Draco’s throat bobbed as he thought about how to phrase it. “With Pansy and Astoria, I followed their lead. Wasn’t much of a point of finesse when they were so eager. They’re both quite aggressive, so I was usually just… There. So, I can empathize in some ways.”

“But you wanted them?”

Draco shrugged.

Hermione stared at her hands, a sad smile on her lips. She took his hand into hers as she drew sigils onto his palm. He picked the patterns in seconds as his grandmother used to do the same when he was a young boy. They sat in silence in the low afternoon light with the smell of sweat and sex in the air. As much as he mourned the way she had been treated by McLaggen, as she was told she was broken, he saw how his fragments matched hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Implied dub-con between Hermione & McLaggen. Not depicted; more "confusion about a sexual encounter in the past" between Hermione & McLaggen. Nothing too detailed or graphic. Headcanon is just that McLaggen tried to get to third base and Hermione was like "oop no thanks", and he backed off when told to. But still that grey area of consent, so just a small heads up. It won't be referenced too often/it's just a small detail that's expanded upon for the sake of Draco & Hermione moving forward. No dubcon with main couple, actually quite the opposite with consent a massive thing because that's just how I write my romance. :')


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mild NSFW.

**Saturday — 16th January, 1999.**

The Three Broomsticks always smelled of sweat and spilled drinks in the winter. People peeled their thick cloaks and coats off as if they didn’t realize how they stunk. Draco traced the edges of the crowd with idle attention and skipped over Rosmerta altogether. His family had paid her a visit in the wake of the war to make peace on Draco’s behalf. Her face twisted at the sight of him, which was a shame; she was quite pretty beneath the hatred.

Draco sank further into the plush red couch with threadbare edges, the same one Hermione had sat on.

The couch opposite Ron and Harry.

Harry’s presence alone cleared out the tittering Fourth years who’d sat here before them. They packed up without a word and flashed away like a school of fish. Hermione, the clever, beautiful girl that she was, cast a ward against eavesdropping. The ward shimmered around the edges and gave a dreamlike distance to the rest of the bar. They could see out, but the sound was muted on either side. It isolated the four of them in an awful way. 

Draco felt as if he were seated on thin ice in the middle of the Great Lake outside of Hogwarts. As if the cold water might lash out and drag him under if Weasley’s gaze could ever be so lethal. He had a scar on his eyebrow and shared the same rigid posture as Potter.

Aurors were always wound tight. At least the ones Draco saw, the ones who visited his father to whisper secrets or worries in the dead of night. But the silence remained between the four of them, in spite of the fact this meeting was meant to be companionable. They were meant to be talking, sharing information and making peace.

Draco reached across to Hermione, to settle a hand at the nape of her neck. He did his level best not to drag her close, to kiss her stupid, because he liked her enough not to use her for spite.

Yet his hand lingered and he might end up at St. Mungo’s for that alone.

“What’re you playing at, Malfoy?” Weasley said, his voice low.

“I rather think that question should be directed to you.” Draco squared his jaw as he turned his gaze to Weasley, his hand still on Hermione’s neck. “All of you, your Order, the Ministry…”

“The Ministry didn’t ask to have you observed,” Potter said as if that made things better.

“No, of course not.” Draco let his hand drop to Hermione’s knee. “You just slung Hermione at a Death Eater and told her, oh, make sure he’s a good boy this year.”

“It was my choice,” Hermione cut in, her hand settled onto Draco’s. “I wanted to keep an eye on you.”

“More than that I’d guess,” Weasley slumped back in his chair, his voice lower than before.

“She didn’t have to do it,” Potter waved a hand at her. “She wanted to help, and we wanted to make sure you weren’t going to pull another cabinet trick on us.”

Draco’s eyes flashed in the firelight, the silver burned red. He blinked, a tight smile formed between pale lips as he shook his head. As if the magic he’d performed was nothing more than a trick; as if he’d not outsmarted one of the greatest wizards of their time.

Hermione shook her hand, just a little, and he relaxed his grip. He hadn’t meant to squeeze her hand, he hadn’t realized he’d done it. He mindlessly pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He swore Weasley might have burst a blood vessel out of pure rage.

“So you don’t know anything about the Death Eaters looking to take out those who helped Harry?”

“If I knew who was after Hermione,” Draco began, his voice whisper-thin. “I would have already killed them.”

“Yeah,” Weasley snorted. “Sure.”

“Which part do you doubt?” Draco asked with a tilt of his head. He met Weasley’s eye with absent interest as if he couldn’t care less what the boy had to say back.

“Am I the only one who remembers how you used to bully her?” Weasley sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “Callin’ her names, picking on how she looked.”

Draco’s brow shot up, an incredulous look shot at Hermione. “I bullied you?”

Hermione tried not to laugh which left her lips tight and her chest in a gentle motion. She bit down the laughter with a large sigh, her eyes narrowed at Weasley then back to Draco. “I’m not going to explain myself to you, Ron.”

“This isn’t me being a jealous ex-boyfriend,” Weasley threw his hands into the air, to slump back into his seat. “As a friend, one to another, you could do loads better than Draco fuckin’ Malfoy.”

“We’re here about the Death Eaters who are trying to kill our friends,” Potter interjected, his hands flattened at either side of his shoulders, palms out.

“Yeah,” Ron snapped back as he stood. “Death Eaters trying to kill our friends… And then what, Malfoy just slides his greasy little git self into Hermione, and that’s not suspicious?”

Draco’s face warped as he tried to logic out the insinuation. He didn’t have to argue; he knew better than anyone that Hermione deserved better than him. He hadn’t thought otherwise, not even now that he had her. He wouldn’t be surprised if she up and left him tomorrow when she worked it out for herself. But until she decided to leave, he would make the most of their time together.

Which involved Potter and Weasley.

“He said he doesn’t know anything about it,” Hermione had her gaze fixed on the floor, her hands bunched into her lap.

“And you trust him?” Weasley stared down at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue.

Hermione looked at Draco, her lips parted. She searched his face as if the proof could be found in such a shallow place. She wilted, her shoulder shrugged and her gaze switched back to Ron. “I trust him with my life.”

Draco felt ill.

The conversation dwindled from there, given that Weasley stormed out and Harry chased after him. Harry returned to grab their coats and to slap a few Galleons down. He hugged Hermione goodbye and gave Draco a firm nod. But otherwise, Draco considered it a success. He hadn’t expected to survive the encounter, not when Hermione had first told him about it during their patrol Wednesday night. They lingered in the Three Broomsticks for a short while longer, given that they’d planned to have dinner with the two boys.

They didn’t speak much, not about anything specific. They just relaxed in the firelight, as if it had gone well as if they were any other couple on a short break from their studies.

(Even as Hermione read a small poetry book with her head on his shoulder. Draco read a book on Muggle warfare, his arm looped around her.)

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Wednesday — 20th January, 1999.**

N.E.W.T.s continued to suck whatever limited time they had into its abyss. They had more essays than they were reasonably able to write. Hermione had cried three times since the weekend out of stress and she’d written five notes to McGongall about dropping out. She hadn’t sent any of them, but she’d written them. Each varied, from stress to stupidity, in all the ways she wasn’t suited to school. And he had pried each note from her hand before she stormed off with it, to tuck it into an envelope.

“Just think about it for the night,” he said as his lips brushed against her temple. “And if you still want to quit, you can do it tomorrow.”

Hermione mumbled something unintelligent into his throat.

“Only four more months… Five at most.”

“Unless I fail and have to resit the exams, or I do so terribly they make me a First-year again and I — ”

Draco caught her jaw between his palms, to stare at her. “Are you being falsely modest, or do you truly think you’re going to fail?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione hiccuped her face as red as ever. “I don’t know anything, I’m going to write something stupid, and they’ll fail me and — ”

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

Hermione stopped babbling to stare at him.

“You know you’re clever. You could beat just about anyone in any exam. You’re going to be top of the class.”

“But what if I’m not?” Her voice cracked. “What if I fail?”

“So, you’ll fail.”

Her face shattered like fine china tossed from a balcony. She looked as if he’d reached into her throat and torn out her heart.

“Okay,” Draco’s throat bobbed as he stared down at her. “What if I fail?”

“But you won’t.”

“But what if I failed? Say I absolutely fail, rubbish grades, T’s all around,” Draco tipped his head to the side, to knock his loose bangs from his eyes. “How would you feel about me?”

“But you wouldn’t — ”

“Just pretend,” Draco smiled at her, though he wanted to shake her.

Hermione buttoned her lips together, her teeth clenched behind her lips. She searched over his shoulder, at her bed then at his. She raised her hands to his, to pry them from her cheeks. But it wasn’t an answer. Whether she didn’t know what to say or she realized his point, he couldn’t say. The silence lingered between them as she rotated their grip, so their hands hung intertwined and between them, loose and low.

“Well?”

“They’re just grades,” Hermione said, her tone sober. “You’re clever… And if they give you all T’s, then they’re stupid.”

“And,” Draco leaned down to peck her on the forehead. “As much as I know you hate to hear it, good grades doesn’t mean you’re clever.”

Hermione froze against him as if he’d slapped her.

“Grades show your ability to perform in a rigid setting, essays, incantations.” He tugged a hand free to capture her cheek, to pull her in for a kiss. He lingered in it, long enough to squash any retort she had. “Even if you failed every single class, you’re still the smartest witch I’ve ever met. But being clever or smart doesn’t mean anything if that’s all you have.”

“But that is all I have,” Hermione said in a watery voice.

“You know it isn’t.” Draco rested his forehead against hers. Her eyes were closed, but at least she wasn’t in tears any longer. N.E.W.T.s. was stressful no matter who you were, no matter your background. Plenty of students ended up in Hospital Wing for the stress of it all, mixed with the knowledge they’d have to move into the limited Magical workforce. If you didn’t want to work in the Ministry or a store…

The jobs became quite limited.

“I don’t think there’s anything else to me,” Hermione said, her voice empty as she met his eye.

“You’re more than a resource for everyone else.”

Hermione strained as if she wanted to argue, but she kept quiet. Instead, she folded against him into a loose hug, one that he’d become accustomed to. He hadn’t gotten used to her, per se, but he’d learned to react. He would wrap his arms around her and pull her close. He’d scratch at the nape of her neck and kiss her cheeks or her hairline, whatever part of her he could reach. And he would make the most of these quiet moments when they were alone, in their dorm, in their own time.

Because he didn’t know what would happen after school. If this was just a result of proximity, and with that lost, they’d grow apart. His stomach knotted together as he thought about it. He breathed her in, the smell of the perfume he’d bought her mixed with whatever it was she used for her hair. She smelled like warmth and softness, and of home. And he’d never had such a thought in his life, not even in his own house.

He’d never felt like he was at home with someone, not like this.

“It’s late,” he said against her temple, his lips in a perpetual press of kisses. “You should sleep.”

“So should you,” she said with a little laugh.

“If I could, I would.”

Her laughter faded as she met his eye, concern replaced her misery. “Draco.”

“Hermione,” he said with a labored sigh.

“I told you, you should get some Dreamless Sleep if you still can’t sleep — ”

“No.”

Hermione’s chin dipped so that her full offense was on display. “It isn’t good to have it all the time, but once in a while won’t kill you.”

Draco strained a smile down at her as he pulled back. He moved towards his bed, to tug at his tie. “I don’t like the idea of it.”

“Of what? Sleep?”

Draco stared at his bed as if it were a trap. He fidgeted with his buttons as an excuse to avoid her gaze, his hands less shaky than they had been several months before. He hid it well but the perpetual Cruciatus Curse along with the Dark Arts, the torture, the brutality — his vision blurred. 

“When did you last sleep?”

Draco shrugged his shirt off, lost in his own world.

“Draco,” Hermione’s hand closed around his bicep, to turn him enough to catch his eye.

But she didn’t look at his eye. Not for long. Her gaze was fixed on his chest, at the puckered scar. He realized in a small, distant way that she’d never seen it; she’d never seen what Harry had done to him in their Sixth year. She knew about it, she’d have felt it through his shirt… But the bubbled skin and two-inch stretch of it from his left shoulder to his right hip was a different reality. He avoided it when he showered and he didn’t often look in the mirror.

He used to; he often wondered what would have happened if he’d just died then and there. His family would be dead, too. He knew that. And his mother wouldn’t have been at Hogwarts, able to lie to Voldemort through her natural Occlumency. There were so many things that fell into place because of his family. But so many more things that his family had done wrong. His mind raced with the weight of their deeds, good or bad, as he tried to balance them out.

And she stared because she’s nothing if not tactless.

“Should I pose for a picture?” He asked his hands on his hips. “I’d rather strike a pose, perhaps lay down, rather than be gawked at.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped to his, her bottom lip pushed out.

“I’ve slept a few hours here and there. Not enough,” he looked at his hands, where he had his nightshirt. He tugged it on, scarlet red drawn across his cheeks and throat.

“Sorry,” Hermione said as she sobered.

“It isn’t your fault.”

“No, I know, but sorry — for staring, I just…” She worried her fingers through her hair.

“It’s just skin. Just a scar,” he said with no conviction. He was too tired to argue, too tired to be upset. He didn’t care that she’d seen it. It was a scar, of which he had many. He had one on his head from where he’d fallen off his broom as a child. He had a thin one on his arm from that awful hippogryph. He had the Dark Mark, and several dozen fine scars around that, for reasons he didn’t want to linger on. But he was a tapestry of poor choices, all silver lines wrapped around translucent flesh.

Hermione rushed off to her side of the room and he slumped into bed.

Right.

It took a few seconds, but Draco had changed. He wore the same silk pajamas, black with silver trim because he could at least pretend to sleep. Sometimes being still in the dark felt enough like sleep that he’d count it. But he lost count of how many nights he woke, shivering and sweating as if he were back in the midst of the war. Sleep wasn’t really something he could do, least of all with Dreamless Sleep. He didn’t trust the world enough to be out of it for long, because despite everything, he wanted to be alive.

Just for a while longer.

Draco slumped onto his bed, his hands behind his head and his eyes snapped shut.

He fucked up somewhere in all this. Maybe the scar was too much for her. That wouldn’t surprise him. It was rather garish. If she had imagined them together in any capacity, she’d likely not have pictured a massive wound on his chest. It was healed, of course, it wasn’t bleeding, but it wasn’t handsome either. It wasn’t a little slit in his brow or a scar on his forehead. It was the work of the Dark Arts, as much as every other scar on him was. It was something her very best friend had carved into him because — he still didn’t know why.

Oh right, he’d tried to kill Harry.

How time flies.

But he hadn’t meant it. But his lips had formed the spell, he’d tried, but he’d never meant it. He never could mean it. Draco was fueled by spite and jealousy, but rarely true hatred. He didn’t hate anyone, not as much as he’d grown to hate himself.

“Excuse me.”

Draco’s eyes snapped open to see Hermione in an oversize t-shirt red flannel pants. The shirt was faded, but it said something about teeth. He squinted at it, curious about the slogan, but then she was on his lap. And he didn’t really think the words mattered right now.

“I have a proposition.”

“Do tell,” Draco rasped, his voice stolen by the weight of her against him.

“I’ll sleep next to you if you take the Dreamless Sleep potion,” Hermione lifted her chin and raised her hand — a small vial with purple liquid sat between her fingers.

Draco frowned up at her.

“I’m a light sleeper, so if anything happens… I can wake you up. I promise.”

“You really think I’m scared to sleep?” Draco said with a bite to his tone.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

Draco didn’t meet her eye. He kept his hand on her waist. His fingers slid beneath her shirt, just enough to touch the bare skin of her lower back. His thumb caught in the fine line of her hip where the bone jutted. She didn’t eat much, but neither did he.

“Before,” Hermione said with hesitation thick in her tone. “I wasn’t staring at your scar.”

Draco stared at the door to their dorm, his eyes narrowed. He’d moved around his lattices so he could see a sliver of the door from where he slept, as well as several windows. But he couldn’t see her bed and she couldn’t see his.

“Sometimes it’s just strange… To be with you,” she spoke in a slow voice as if she were being very careful with her words. “Not bad-strange, just… Strange. To see you vulnerable, even if you don’t mean to be. But I appreciate the fact you trust me enough to let me see you. In… In a lot of ways,” Hermione shifted her weight so she was seated on the bed rather than on him.

Draco turned to look at her, her bright brown eyes were dark in the shadows. He’d never seen her with such darkness to her gaze as if she might bite him.

“I just want to help you sleep. If that’s me leaving you alone or staying with you… Whatever helps.”

“Why?”

Hermione laughed, which she tried to snatch back into her mouth. “We’re dating, aren’t we?”

Draco resisted the urge to pout.

Hermione reached out to brush at his hair, to feather her fingers through his loose fringe. She leaned down to peck him on the forehead, then the cheek, and he felt like a dumbstruck idiot. He heard the glass hit the bedside table as she adjusted closer, to kiss him with full intent. He yanked her back into place across his lap, his lips against hers. She giggled so he nipped her lip, which stopped the giggles altogether. He searched for those moans she kept so far down her throat he might have to be inside her to find them.

They kissed as often as they could, between classes, patrols, but they kept it cautious in their dorm. Because of all the places, it could twist into visceral mistakes, this was the place. He’d pull away or she’d pull out a book. They never shared a bed, they never lingered like this. He’d never really thought to, as being in a shared dorm felt strange to taint. But this was their dorm, their room, their space, their privacy — she was all his, and he was all hers.

He didn’t stop as he would normally.

He yanked her around so she was beneath him, her hair knotted into a fine braid. He tugged at it between their kisses, gentle then determined, and she let out the strangest little sound. It was a shapeless begging, for something, and he stopped. Which felt hypocritical, but he had to be sure — 

Draco pushed himself back from her, wedged against her like he was about to fuck her into the mattress but there’s too much flannel and cloth for that to be a reality. He hissed through gritted teeth as she sneaked her head around, to nip at his neck, a devilish smile on her face. She was getting worse with time and he appreciated that, deeply.

“I can’t believe you were perving on me,” he said in a bored tone, but even he could hear how deep his voice had dropped. It graveled in his throat and sat low in his chest.

“I wasn’t,” Hermione said with a little laugh in her voice. “I hadn’t realized you intended to change, I would have left.”

“And what if I wanted you to stay?”

Hermione laughed again. She was a nervous giggler he deduced. At least she didn’t cry.

“This proposition of yours, about Dreamless Sleep…” Draco said as he pushed her hair from her forehead. He’d loosened the braid enough for it to unravel, and he teased it with his free hand. His other arm was framed around her head, to give him some distance from her. “You want to share a bed with me?”

“I do,” Hermione said, full of decisiveness.

“So is the Dreamless Sleep to make sure that we only sleep,” he said with an eyebrow raise. “You don’t trust me enough to just share a bed?”

Hermione’s amusement cracked into annoyance. “No. I thought you’d not want to take it, that you might feel better if I stayed with you.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her as if he could detect a lie by sight alone. And he could, to some degree. But he loathed Legilimency against those he cared about. He wasn’t skilled enough to do it without them realizing it, and it caused more problems than it solved.

“I do trust you.”

“I’m sure.”

“I love you,” Hermione said with a tart edge to her voice. The same one she used when she corrected him on grammar.

Draco sat back, his brows furrowed and his lips parted.

Hermione remained frozen to the bed, on her back, her little chin wobbling. Her teeth chattered when she was excited, in a multitude of ways. But right now he doubted she was excited, given that she’d just blurted out something as serious as love. They hadn’t said it to one another, not yet. And he hadn’t wanted to, not until they were at a fine restaurant, or on a walk through his Manor gardens. Something beautiful and idyllic, where they’d look the part.

Not him in his silk pajamas, and her in a Muggle shirt about teeth and two-thirty.

“Why do you do that?” Draco said, his voice empty.

Hermione scooted up and back, her knees hugged to her chest. She frowned at him through the darkness of their dorm, but he had the moonlight to trace her outlines.

“You always have to beat me to things. I was going to take you out, make a dinner of it — why do I even bother to plan nice things when you just drop things out of the blue.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you too, obviously, don’t get pouty about it. But you have no sense of romance. Of all the times…” Draco dragged his hands down his face.

“You love me?”

Draco stared at her as if she had just asked him if water was wet.

“Well,” Hermione swallowed hard, her brows furrowed. “I think it’s a little ridiculous to wait until the right moment. There’s no such thing as the right moment. There’s just how you feel, and… And you don’t always get a chance to say how you feel. And life’s too short to sit on that sort of thing.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her.

“Are you really angry that I beat you to saying ‘I love you’ first?”

“Perhaps, a little.”

“Draco.”

“It’s just unfair, I loved you for longer, I should have gotten to say it first,” Draco threw up his hands, stuck between anger and relieved.

“You are impossible,” Hermione flopped backwards onto his pillows, her laughter back into her voice.

“Don’t laugh! How is this funny?”

“You’re so petty. You’re really that upset about who says they love the other first? Draco,” she exhaled, breathy and low.

Which didn’t help the situation.

Draco squared his jaw before he dropped back over her, his lips against hers. She kissed him back, the same warmth and demand in her as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He didn’t know what he wanted from her, not right now, but he’d take what he could. Whatever she wanted to give, whatever she wanted to do. He chased her hips with his, his eyes half-shut as he warped his petty frustration into something productive.

“You deserve so much more than you expect.” His mouth had trailed to the spot beneath her ear, where he anchored himself. His breath settled into the damp warmth of her hair, their sweat combined in the cheap white sheets. All he wanted was for her to be with him, at his Manor, covered in fine silk and soft cotton. He’d give her the finest wines and the most beautiful dresses, to lick the wine from her lips and tear the lace from her. He’d find that spot where it became too much for her and never tread beyond it.

Were nails too much, or teeth? Or did she thrive beneath idle pain when mixed with just the right sort of pleasure?

He wanted to know, he wanted it so badly, but he wanted her most of all.

And so he’d wait until she asked.

He’d make her ask.

Draco drew back, painfully aware of many things; of the wet spot against his slacks, which was decidedly not his fault. He could smell her in the air, between the sweat and the perfume. He bit down hard on his inner cheek, her eyes locked onto his as he pulled back.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, lucid in spite of his tired she looked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, a slight smirk on his lips. “Aside from you stealing first place again.”

“Love isn’t a contest.”

“It can be,” he said, his hand against her inner thigh. He let it sit, to see how she reacted. But all he felt was her shift, to coax it closer to the source of all his personal woes. His throat tensed as she shivered beneath him and he hated himself, hated how he couldn’t just leave her well enough alone, that he had to ruin everything because he’s so used to taking things from people. But he didn’t want to take anything from her, nothing like this — he wanted her to give it, willingly, like she’d given her love.

He doesn’t want this to be a trick because he’s not stupid. He can tell she’d not object if he were to slide down her pants and — he isn’t sure, but he’d probably eat her out first, because of all the things he’s decided, it’s that he wants to fuck her somewhere nicer than a dorm at Hogwarts. It really isn’t the sort of place he wanted to ruin, if it went terribly. But he toyed with her thigh, the gentle tap of his fingers along the thick fabric.

Her hand snapped out to grab his wrist and he froze.

“We should sleep,” she said, her voice small. “But…”

“Do not say thank you.”

“I have a stupid thing to ask.”

“Promising start,” Draco said with an idle voice. “Ask away.”

“May I touch you?”

Draco gestured between them, at how he was wedged between her thighs and she had his wrist in her hand.

“I meant more…” Her hand reached out, to touch his chest. “I just… I think, if I were to touch you, at least once, I wouldn’t be so — I just think it’d be — “

“I’m yours,” Draco flipped their grip to shove her hand against his chest. “You don’t really need to ask.”

“But I do,” Hermione said, her voice smaller than she’d been all night. Her fingers sneaked beneath the silk, to idle against his scar. He anticipated her being curious about it, but he hadn’t realized it’d been such a point of concern for her. His eyes slid shut as he tensed, aware in those few seconds what it meant to be touched. Even in such a seemingly innocent way. He hadn’t let anyone touch his scar or much of him. 

If he and Astoria did anything, he kept his clothes on. He barely undressed, and he’d not had anyone see him beyond a shirt and slacks since Sixth year. He refused medical treatment as much as possible and learned to heal to fill the gaps. He expected her to pick at the scar, to peel it open and have the blackness in his chest drip down over her, but it didn’t. Even as he shook, her fingers gentle as she pulled them back.

“I meant more…” She struggled with her words, as her hand idled downward.

“As I said, I’m yours.”

“But it’s still good to ask.”

Draco smiled at her, though he couldn’t fault her logic. He bent down to kiss her, gentle and sweet which was so unlike their earlier kisses. But he needed it.

And then her fingers dipped into his pajama bottoms and he caught on.

“You don’t have to,” he said with a thin voice, terror laced through him.

“I want to, just… To see what it’s like?”

Draco swallowed hard, the terror twice as bad as before. He felt like he’d tricked her, or forced her. But he couldn’t find it in himself to stop her, not as she slipped his pants down enough.

And then it’s so much.

Draco dropped closer to her, to disguise the absolute fear in his eyes. He can’t even pinpoint it, he’s not a virgin, he’s been with several girls, girls he could name were Hermione Granger not palming his cock like she were trying to work out how to hold a broom handle. It’s — not exactly exciting, not in a sexual way, it’s just very surprising, like going to get a muffin from the Kitchen and getting a handjob instead. Not a bad surprise, but still a surprise, given this wasn’t the plan.

Why did the girl insist on ruining all his fucking plans?

But his eyelids fluttered shut as heat welled in his chest and stomach, his lips parted by her ear. He can’t see her face, but he can imagine her sheer horror or morbid confusion. It’s not even a proper handjob, she’s just wrapped her hand around him, gentle pressure and idle touches like she’s trying to memorize him for later. And he strained, stiff joints locked around her because he doesn’t know if this is meant to be good or if it’s really just her trying to get over the whole sex thing in her own unique way.

But then she turned her to head to peck him on the cheek, a pained smile on her lips.

“I have no idea what to do.”

“You really don’t have to do anything.”

“But I want to do this,” Hermione said in a voice that hit him low in the spine. Her lashes fluttered out of surprise, because perhaps she didn’t know that cocks twitch, and Draco wasn’t really ready to give a presentation on handjobs to her.

Draco adjusted, to catch her wrist. He’d never imagined that she might reach out for him, to want to touch him, to want to do anything for him. But she proved him wrong, time and again, and he isn’t sure what to say. He didn’t have the words to explain it to her, because it’s not really something he’s ever thought about. He’s never been so present as he is now, with this poor little brunette beneath him with more determination than experience. And it should be a sexy, fun thing but all he can wonder is if she just wants to beat him to this, too.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione snatched her hand back. “I’m awful at this.”

“You’re fine,” Draco said with a low exhale.

“Fine is awful, just with nicer language.”

“It’s a handjob Hermione, you can’t be awful at it unless you rip my cock off.” Draco gritted his teeth as he finished the thought.

Hermione stared at him, her lips parted.

“It’s late,” Draco said as he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “We should sleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Draco ground out. “I’d rather be ready for that than rush it. For your sake.”

“But — ”

“I need you,” Draco said, his voice sharp. “I need you, as you are, as you’re able to give yourself to me. Trust me when I say there are some things you want to wait for.”

Hermione nodded. He knew she’d agree. They’d talked about her experiences in rough shapes, but the more he lingered on it, the idea that she wanted to give him more than he’d given her… It didn’t sit with him. It formed from the same place that’d been with McLaggen and with Weasley as if they expected her to hand herself over at a few gropes. She expected so little and accepted even less. And he’d been there. He’d done the same. Sex was sex, there was nothing so grand about it. But the agency of doing it at your own pace was important, above all else.

He didn’t want unsure handjobs and confused honey eyes.

“Do you ever worry about yourself?” Hermione asked through the dark. "You always seem more concerned about me."

“Because you never worry about yourself enough. I have no reason to worry about myself, not when I’m with you.”

Hermione pried open the Dreamless Sleep, to pass it to him. She remained silent, a strange look of determination on her face.

“Maybe if you ask Madame Pince, she can show you to the sexual education section of the Library.”

“No, they’re kept in the Restricted Section. I’d need a permission slip and Professor McGongall said that wanting to have sex with you wasn’t a good enough reason.”

Draco choked on the potion.

“That was a joke,” Hermione said with her eyebrow raised at him. “I don’t need books, I just need time…”

“We have plenty of time, I promise,” Draco slumped back against the bed and in a flurry of covers, they cuddled together. She tucked herself against his back as she cuddled into his neck. She pressed kisses behind his ear. He didn’t trust himself to have her in front of him, given the absolutely unfortunate erection she coaxed with her awkward touches.

“I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Draco said in a low slur. “I have no idea why, but I appreciate it.”

“Well say it back.” She said with a gentle jab of her fingers against his ribs.

“I love you,” he said, too warm from her, from the sheets. But he fell asleep with her curled around his back. He had never fallen asleep with such ease, not in all the years he’d been alive.

When he woke, it was with mild panic.

She was gone.

Draco sat up as if he’d been shaken awake, his hands flat against the bed, as if he might see her dead on the floor or the windows shattered or — 

“Oh,” Hermione’s voice rippled through the air. “Of course you wake up when I go to the toilet.”

Draco didn’t give her a chance to do much aside from falling back into bed, as he cuddled her close in silence. She curled into him as he shook as if he might break if she touched him too much. She stroked his hair and cuddled beneath the blankets. It was six o’clock and breakfast was in an hour.

“I promise I was here all night,” she said in a soft whisper.

“I know,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she repeated a wane smile on her lips.

He had thought that part was a dream. But as they broke apart around half an hour later he looked at the potion bottle. It lacked the crystals that formed around the edges of a Dreamless Sleep potion. He toyed with the bottle and ran a diagnostics, to find it was nothing more than water that had been enchanted purple. He looked across the dorm to where Hermione was fussing with her hair, as it plumed around her head like a cloud.

“Need help, love?”

“Could you?”

And he could.

Even if it cost her several dozen kisses.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: sexual content.

**Monday — 25th January, 1999.**

In spite of what Draco expected, Astoria took a full month to approach him.

After all, they attended the banquet together. She had gone from a vested interest, where she wanted to cuddle up to his mother and flirt with his father to… nothing. To less than nothing, not even a shadow or a snide comment. She didn’t sit near him, she didn’t look his way. At first, he thought it was an attempt at reverse psychology. As if she could play hard to get, but he stopped paying attention. Instead, he doubled down on his studies and on his absolute frustration with Hermione.

(A good frustration, but the girl was nothing if not frustrating.)

Not to mention how often Hermione sneaked over to the Slytherin table to say hello. Or the way he’d always sit towards the end, near the door, so that Hermione would have an easier time if she decided to visit. And she did often. She’d sneak over to the Slytherin table with an essay or a book, something like an excuse, and she’d sit beside him.

And if she felt particularly brave, she’d kiss him goodbye.

But only goodbye.

With how her hands shook and how wide her eyes were when she sat down, she could barely find the courage to sit with him in the first place. That morning she’d waved a meek hello and passed straight by, which struck him as odd. But she had been odd since N.E.W.T.s. had kicked into the last few months of preparation. She had worn her robes backward before he’d left her in their dorm. They often walked down to the Great Hall together, but not always.

His friends adjusted to the change with far more grace than Weasley. None of them had even questioned him on his choice. Pansy had made one joke about it, about how she knew he liked Granger because of how he’d gawked at her at the Yule Ball.

But Pansy’s just a bitch like that. She didn’t know a damn thing.

But this morning, Astoria sat across from Draco with a severe tilt to her brows.

“You can stop now.”

Draco’s hand paused, scrambled eggs speared with some bacon held aloft.

“I can’t imagine what you were trying to prove, but this whole trying to make me jealous thing — it’s just childish.”

Draco couldn’t feel his face. He might be dead. He must be, to have Astoria in front of him, convinced he was trying to do anything as stupid as making her jealous.

Astoria didn’t break eye contact with him. He didn’t blame her. Theo was to her left, though he’d turned a fraction with raised brows. Blaise left the table with a croissant in either hand. Pansy and Daphne had already headed off for their Divination class.

“What do you want, Astoria?”

“To talk,” she said, her voice wounded.

“So speak.”

Astoria furrowed her brow. She remained across from him but pushed up, just a little, to lean in closer. “I miss you.”

“Understandable,” he said with a dry snort.

Astoria laughed, and she’d missed the sarcasm. He was tired.

“I haven’t missed you.”

“Oh?”

“There isn’t much to miss.” Draco plucked an apple from a fruit basket, to tuck it into his pocket.

Astoria narrowed her gaze at him as if she were in search of the flirtatious edge. There was none, yet she seemed pleased. “So, you haven’t missed me because… You’ve had me in your dreams?”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Draco exhaled, a crisp smile on his face. The sort of piteous smile he provided to House Elves when they made a decent cup of tea.

“I just think it’s rude, to just… Dismiss me.”

“Sorry if you feel that way,” he said in the least sorry voice possible.

“So you are breaking up with me?” Astoria asked, her voice level and sweet. She was never any fun, not really. She did everything in such a way as to remain pretty. She cried in a pretty way, she threw tantrums in a pretty way. He’d love to see her choked out, to see what a Shakespearian display she’d turn it into.

“Don’t make a scene.” Draco said in a flat voice. 

“I’m not making a scene.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“As if! You say you want someone who’s isn’t annoying and go after the most annoying girl in the school,” Astoria slapped her hands on the wooden tabletop.

“I wouldn’t say she’s the most annoying.”

“You want her?” Astoria’s brows jumped up in perfect symmetry. “When you had me?”

“I don’t want her — I have her.” Draco rolled his eyes as he took a bite of his eggs. “And I never had you, nor do I want you. It’s all quite simple if you just listen for once instead of speak.”

Astoria’s gaze flickered over his face, her lips formed down to a fine point. She shook her head in a sharp, sudden way and turned to head further down the table. She didn’t cry at least, didn’t make as much of a scene as he expected her to. Instead she huffed and puffed with her semi-circle of friends. 

Draco was ready to accept his award in patience, whenever someone should deign it necessary to present it.

It took no time for him to finish his breakfast and snake his way over to the Gryffindor table. For as often as Hermione visited him, he never ventured this far. It felt like he’d positioned himself for a strike, given how the older students cuddled the First years closer. As if he were about to snatch their braids or hex them. His brow raised though the rest of his face remained unaffected. He looked at Hermione, who had two textbooks propped up against several jams.

“You’re buttering parchment, Hermione.”

Hermione snapped out of her daze. She looked at her hands, which held a slice of bread and a knife. “Don’t do that to me.”

“Made you look,” Draco smirked.

Hermione slathered a few more pieces of toast and gathered her books. She’d sat in the middle of a group of Second years. Most of them looked terrified, at her intrusion and at his visit. He smiled at them which was worse than anything else he could have done — because he’d tried, and they continued to gawk like he was about to kill them. He dropped the smile which made it seem more fake, not that it had been real, to begin with.

But still, he’d tried.

Hermione started for the Great Hall doors, though she’d left her scarf and two books on the table. He snatched them up to flip each open, to make sure they were hers. The textbook was untouched, a library book about fertility magic, which he snapped shut. He shoved that into his satchel with a nasty scowl at the Second years who relaxed at the sight.

Weird little pricks.

He dashed after her, the small journal in hand — he didn’t recognize it. He flipped it open to see her handwriting.

_Tuesday — September 1st, 1998._

_Greetings._

_As if N.E.W.T.s. isn’t enough of a burden on its own. Given that this diary (journal?) will remain for my eyes only, I will take the time to express my distaste for the plan._

_I will first acknowledge that this is no doubt an exercise in futility. I doubt I’ll ever have a reason to share you with the Order. But I need to take notes in case such a situation does arise. Perhaps Malfoy’s movements will string together into a discernible pattern or he might reveal his hand through this year. But given he has been nothing but his usual prickly self, I doubt that he has another grand plan akin to his Sixth year. He was unpleasant on the train, uncooperative and elusive at best._

Draco’s brows shot up and he snapped that shut too. His throat tightened as he lost sight of Hermione.

The walk up to the Sixth floor was excruciating.

He had seen his name. He had a perfect opportunity to peek into her mind without her even realizing it. But he couldn’t. He had, a little, to make sure it was hers, but she’d started her entries on the front page. But her handwriting was unmistakable. He weighted the book in his hand, his throat strained as he walked.

He could read it.

But he can’t. He couldn’t. He refused.

When he arrived at the Ancient Runes classroom, he saw Hermione with her arm buried inside her tiny beaded purse. Her arm vanished into the bag altogether. If he weren’t magical, he might be surprised, but she’s Hermione Granger. She could fly by sheer will power alone and he’d not question it.

“Have you seen — ”

Draco unloaded both books without a word, his face impassive.

Hermione worried the leather between her fingers, her eyes wide.

“I didn’t read it,” he said, his voice small. “In case you were concerned.”

“No, I know, I…” Hermione breathed out through her teeth. “Thank you. Did I leave them — ”

“With the Second years, yes.” His gaze flicked between the fertility textbook and the journal. “Extra credit?”

Hermione snorted behind a hand, her eyes heavier than he’d seen them in a long time. She had a rough edge to her as if someone had worried her until she frayed. He’d noticed how tightly wound she’d been in Potions all those weeks ago. He couldn’t help but see the same tension in her, as if she might snap at the smallest thing.

His eyes slid shut as he leaned against the hard stone wall. Professor Babbling wasn’t due for another ten minutes, though she tended to be early. But Hermione had rushed here and so he had followed. Their weekend had been much the same as every other speck of spare time. They studied, they wrote essays and they kissed between both. It wasn’t a lavish life, nor one of great romance. But he was terrified to pull her away from school without good reason.

He had mentioned Hogsmeade but she’d made it about essays.

A soft pressure on his shoulder made him freeze. His eye slid open to see Hermione curled up against him, her cheek against him, her head tipped down.

“You okay?”

“What did Astoria want?”

“Notes,” Draco said, his voice thin. “Just, notes for a class.”

They didn’t speak again until lunch when Hermione excused herself to the Library. They had their Charms class that afternoon which was to be a practice exam. By five o’clock, Draco wanted to curl up into a ball and never return. But he had to skip dinner for Quidditch practice and by the time he got back to his dorm, he was quite sure he might die.

Life was tense enough without the dynamics of class to run them ragged.

He ditched his boots by the door and did a quick charm to remove the worst of his grime. He’d still have to shower and pray for sleep, as he’d had a long day and he just — 

Why was there green light coming from the bathroom?

Draco had frozen by the entrance as a slow, continual green light formed beneath the crack of the door. It was too continuous to be anything like a killing curse, so the knot in his stomach eased. But as he approached, he felt he might be ill. He had left Hermione alone for the day while she was stressed about school. It could be Potions homework or something for the Order. It could be anything. He pushed the door open with the flat of his palm, his silver eyes wide in the low green light.

Hermione was bent over a cauldron and a splay of ingredients he recognized.

Pixie venom, comfrey…

Wiggentree bark.

And then the pieces clicked together as a solid tug yanked him back to when he was ten and stumbled upon a kit in his parent’s bedroom. He’d been given a potion examination kit and Snape had told him to reverse engineer potions he found around the house. This was one of the worse things Snape did in his childhood, as he got in trouble for ruining half their potion supplies at home, and led him to discover a contraception potion.

It was a miracle that Draco didn’t put himself in the Hospital Wing out of pure panic. He slipped into the bathroom with his back against the door, his gaze fixed on his busy girlfriend.

“Good evening Draco,” Hermione said in a serene tone as she measured out pixie venom. “How was practice?”

“Hermione,” he said in a level voice, his brows furrowed. “What are you doing.”

“Honestly, that’s a very good question,” Hermione said with a deep exasperation. “Oh, with the potion. Of course.”

“Yes, obviously, with the potion.”

“It’s a contraceptive.”

“I know,” Draco said on the verge of laughter. But he kept it in.

“For us.”

“I would hope so.”

Hermione looked up at him, stuck between confused and excited. As if she’d surprised him with a cake, or something exciting. “I thought it was excessive to make small batch given it can last up to five years if properly preserved. I have space to store it, so why not just invest, you know.”

“So, the hope is that within the next five years we might need it.”

Hermione gave a nod, the same serene smile on her lips. “Ginny suggested an incantation, one she read on a bathroom wall, but I think she was just pulling my leg which isn’t very nice.”

“Do I want to ask?”

“No, I don’t care to repeat it. You may ask her if you wish,” Hermione sniffed, her hands covered in thick heat-proof mittens. She was crisscrossed on the bathroom floor, her face lit by the green light. It ate all the red away from her like she’d been ditched into the Great Lake. He pictured her floating by as the mermaids would, though she’d look far prettier with her hair sprawled by the water. He remained against the door, frozen to the spot.

Draco felt the edges of what he should feel. How he should be excited that his (very) gorgeous girlfriend had made a (very) bizarre gesture. Perhaps not bizarre given her nature. He should have expected her to be prepared, but not like this. It felt so strange and distant, to make a cauldron full of contraceptives. He swallowed so hard he felt his muscles define themselves along his throat. But no matter how hard he swallowed, he couldn’t find his voice.

All he felt was that absence, where he should be a smarmy prick about it, but he can’t.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” Hermione said, a weak smile on her lips. “I meant to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Draco said with a smile.

“Well, the book,” she gestured with it. “I borrowed it to make sure I remembered it from the last time I made it.”

Draco smile shattered further into place as he failed to disguise… Everything. Anger, not enough. Not with her. But that jealous swell, of another time, even though he knew by her admission she hadn’t been with anyone else. But that was chased by the idea that he was a cunt for thinking he was owed anything. He’d fucked Astoria and Pansy, his mind grew fuzzy around the lines of it, but he’d been with people. He didn’t care if she had done things — but she hadn’t — but if she had.

“I made it once, with Ron, but I drank it and… Nothing really happened. So, wasted.”

Draco swallowed hard again as he might wake from this strange green bathroom that smelled like cinnamon.

“Not wasted, just we didn’t… You’re aware, nothing happened.”

“Because of him?”

Hermione didn’t meet his eye. “No. I just don’t think either of us wanted it.”

Draco stepped around the mess of paper bags and splinters of wiggenbark. He waved a hand at the cauldron, to slow the temperature shift. Given the look of it, it just had to boil until it reduced. And so he gathered her up without hesitation, her thighs in his hands and his face in her neck. While his movements were decisive, they were soft. If she pushed at him even a little, he’d spring back. But she didn’t. They’d kissed enough times for him to catch onto her tells, which was as strange as kissing her in the first place.

But he’d always loved to learn. Hermione was clever, so much cleverer than anyone he knew, but she was an abysmal teacher. She was too clever at everything, too good to be slow. She had limited patience and high standards. Draco liked to press on her patience and to exceed her expectations in that order. He dropped her onto the counter without needing to look, because perhaps he’d done the math on how many steps it’d take to carry her from the middle of the bathroom entrance to the counters.

Maybe he’d thought about this before.

“Astoria.”

Draco stopped like she’d said the Dark Lord’s name.

“What were you really talking about?” Hermione said, her voice lost towards the ceiling.

“I told you, notes.”

“Whenever you’re nervous, your voice gets a little softer, like if you speak quieter I might not notice you withdrawing.” Hermione adjusted, to push him back enough to meet his eye. “Whenever I ask if you’re okay, it happens.”

Draco picked up the frayed pieces of his instincts, his breath hot as it caught against her throat. He pulled back to look down his nose at her, his head tipped to the side. “She asked if I was with you to make her jealous; to ask if I missed her. Stupid stuff.”

Hermione’s gaze drove into him like a knife, low in his gut. But the pain that followed wasn’t the sort that split. It ached, like he needed to see that same look again and again. Because while he made no secret of how he liked to keep that which was his private — he saw it in her, that flash of jealousy and he wanted to drink her whole. She didn’t speak but that tension from earlier melted like he’d poured warm water over her.

She’s angry, but not with him.

He could live in this moment forever.

“What else did she say?” Hermione asked with a level of command. Her fine pink lips almost vanished between her teeth as she bit down the heat beneath her tongue. But he preferred this to the worrying and the anxiousness and the apologies. He loved this, far more than he could ever love how she’d cry. “She must have said something else. She was there for at least ten minutes.”

“Are you jealous?” Draco asked, her tension stolen between his lips as he smirked.

“Jealous? I don’t — I do not get jealous,” she said, jealously, like the jealous girl she was.

“Don’t you?” He’d die for her. Simple as that. “Why do you ask then?”

Hermione’s gaze flashed again, that brown with bright green highlights from where the potion light bounced around him.

Jealous. His wonderful girlfriend Hermione Granger was jealous.

Ambrosia wasn’t this rich.

“She asked why I’d want to date the most annoying girl in school.”

“I’ve never even spoken to her,” Hermione said with a jolt, which did neither of them any favors. “What did you say back?”

“Well,” Draco said with a labored breath. “I said I didn’t want you, but that I had you. And that if she listened instead of spoke, she may hope to understand in the future.”

She inched closer on the counter, her brow set as she glared at him. As if it were his fault.

Draco loved to be noticed. It wasn’t something that he leaned into in recent times, but it’d been his spine through his younger years. He did anything for attention, demanded it through his grades or his cruelty. But to be noticed by Hermione felt special, as she was so busy so often. So she had been watching, she had watched him with Astoria. And worse than that, she’d grown jealous.

Which was something Draco loved even more; to be coveted, as if he was hers.

Which he was.

Draco’s hands settled onto her knees to part them wide. It allowed him the space to back away from her, her eyes wide in the gradual shadows of the bathroom.

“You said before nothing happened because neither of you wanted it to happen.”

Hermione gave a wordless nod, her hands bunched by her navel as she shoved her skirt down between her thighs.

Draco looked over her once as he parted his lips with his tongue. “He’s a fucking idiot if he didn’t want you.”

“I don’t know if — ”

“I want you, Hermione,” Draco said in the plainest English he could manage. He had toyed around with it, time and again, but the subtly would be better spent on the Giant Squid than Hermione. He loved her, he truly did, but she was so brash in all things. Except this. And he didn’t blame her. But it left him stranded in unfamiliar territory, as he often observed and struck when it was opportune. And the cauldron bubbling behind him suggested this was as opportune as it’d ever get.

“Thank you.” Hermione shook her head. “That is, thank you for saying so. But, we can’t, not until it’s stewed for at least a week.”

Draco stared at her for a long moment before a lazy smile spread across his lips. He parted his lips once, twice, and stilled himself altogether. And then he broke into gentle laughter because he might just up and fucking bolt for the balcony.

“I appreciate the romance of it all, but we have to take precautions — ”

“Hermione,” Draco interjected, his hands still settled on her knees. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

Draco’s throat strained. He wished she’d said no. It’d have been so much easier if she said no. But they were beyond that because all he could feel was the warmth between his palms and the heat of the cauldron behind him. He was tired, he should have showered, but there isn’t much in the world that could prevent him from doing her a favor. Or, he hoped it was a favor. He kissed her again, his weight kept away from her though his hands remained on her knees.

The words flicked between his tongue and hers, and he can’t quite find it in him to say it out loud but he has to. He doesn’t want to ram his fingers into her or bury his face in her cunt without at least some forewarning. She was a strong witch and she trusted him. She’d been hurt before, and by Merlin, he’d still go find McLaggen when he finished exams. He’d make it quick. Maybe just rough him up a bit, leave him in an alleyway in his briefs for a lark.

Which wasn’t the thought he needed right now as Hermione toyed with the buckle of his belt.

Draco reached out to catch her hand, to press it to his erection through his trousers —

Shit, he’d not meant to —

_Fucking Granger._

But she laughed and drew back, her face scrunched. “It’s still weird to touch it, I'm so sorry.”

Draco grabbed her face and shook it just a tiny bit, just enough to make her giggle more. “You’re lucky I’m so confident in my cock as to take that in stride.” He thumbed her cheeks and pecked her forehead and her nose, to nuzzle in closer to her. She’s stupid like that, like something he can love and not break by touch alone. 

“Draco!”

“Hermione,” Draco laughed as he might cry. “You’re the one palming my cock.”

“You make it sound dirty,” she said like she were upset but he knew her well enough. She had a glint of a smile, of pride, as if she were doing well on a test. And he let his hands wander back to her thighs, to ghost closer to the dip towards her cunt. But she wore stockings so — he’d get to that in time.

Draco drew from the long-lost well, where he gave a fuck, where he wanted a reputation to precede him. He wasn’t clever, not like her, but he had more experience at least. Enough to remain coherent as she fidgeted with his zip. He caught her wrist to pull it to his lips, to kiss a path along the soft skin there. Her hand curled around his cheek and he smirked. He pried at the stockings.

It wasn’t easy but he worried his fingers enough in it to pull at it. And he met her eye, his eyebrow raised.

“May I?”

“I said I trust you.”

Draco withheld the chuckle he wanted so badly to let out. He tore the stockings in one easy gesture, then a series of smaller ones to part the silk.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, what are you doing.”

“I’ll let you have one guess,” Draco dropped to his knees, to raise an eyebrow at her.

Hermione stared down at him as if he’d kicked her cat.

“I can repair them.”

“You will.”

“So bossy,” he said in a small voice as he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. The stockings had split far enough to allow him some space because he needed her to have that chance. For his own peace of mind. He’d ruin her if he was left unchecked, and he’d already ruined her enough. From the moment his lips touched her thigh, she froze. She didn’t move closer or further away, she just sat rigid, as if she might set off a trap.

He pressed another kiss before he looked up at her, his eyes narrowed.

“Aside from the property damage, that’s quite nice,” Hermione said with a twitch in her thighs.

Draco rolled his eyes. He planted his hand against her thigh and used his shoulder to keep the other in place. He couldn’t smell the potion anymore, though the scent of cinnamon lingered. But it mixed with her, a smell he couldn’t pinpoint except for entirely her and entirely human. His dry mouth from before vanished as if by magic as he pieced together the reality of what his stupid instincts had wrought. Hermione, spread-legged on a counter with torn stockings, plain cotton panties on show and — she was wet and he was curious. 

Draco looked up at her, that same narrowed look. His free hand, the one not on her knee, ghosted closer to her panties. Because she’d touched him, it only seemed fair. And she watched as if she might vibrate off the counter altogether.

“I should have you know,” Draco exhaled which made her twitch again. Which was his new favorite thing to do. “There are certain things one could do without the potion.”

“Really now,” Hermione said, exasperated. “I had no idea.”

“Oh, you didn’t?” Draco drew close enough to hit elastic and he smirked. “We could practice incantations… Oral work, you know,” he met her eye, a curious lift to his brow as he teased at the edge.

“You’re ridiculous.”

But Draco wasn’t paying attention. He’d pried aside the cotton enough to steal her breath. She’d bunched her hands up by her chest like she was trying not to get in the way, so he took her hand. He threaded it into his hair. But for all the pressure and coercion he thought he’d placed onto her, it was her that shoved his face closer. Not all the way, not enough, but she’d wriggled closer on the counter and that was enough encouragement.

This isn’t something Draco has done much of. He’d eaten Pansy out once or twice but she’d preferred to fuck outright. She was economical with her time, and both times he’d hissed at her because she’d yanked on his hair. He didn’t have the same pain tolerance now, given that Hermione was out to scalp him with the grip she had. But he could endure that for how she unwound. He’d pictured this more than once, though not in their shared bathroom beside a cauldron. It gave everything a distant, green haze but he wanted her, wanted to do this for her for so long.

Since Potions, if he were honest.

He’d seen her, how she’d jump at his touch or how snappy she’d be. He’d thought back then how easy it’d be to help her out, to spread her legs and ease her tension. But it hadn’t been easy, not to get to this point. To a place where Hermione twitched against his tongue as he buried himself face-first into her, the dullest ache in his nose as she was nothing if not eager. He did as promised, ran incantations against the wet folds and almost laughed when she shot him a strange look.

He switched to sigils, and if she noticed, she didn’t say.

It isn’t a specific pattern, just shapes, the firm, wet warmth of her mixed with his tongue. It’s more than she’d done for him and he’s happy with that.

He had to beat her, at least once.

And then she moaned his name like she were about to dock house points, like she was annoyed at him, but then his name fell again and again. It sounded ritualistic as if she were trying to summon him. Which, in a way, she was. She’d get all of him, as much as she’d allow, she’d get the rough edges and the frayed ends. She’d get the broken man who wanted to die, the man who’d worn her down until she spread her legs for him. Because he’s selfish and he’s wanted this, wanted her begging him, to hear his name rasped between her moans.

Those moans she kept beneath her tongue, too scared to let them out.

He isn’t quite sure how to explain the shift, but it’s drastic. He’d ghosted his fingers closer to press one inside her and she shifted altogether. He almost lost her from the counter but he shoved her back. He remained in a strange half-crouch, but this was never meant to be pretty. He just wanted her to come, to come undone and to come alive and worst of all, he wanted to be the reason for it. Draco was selfish and he knew that.

Her, in the green light. His mouth full of her, his tongue against the tiny wad of nerves and two fingers buried inside of her.

Draco refocused as he heard his name, not quite the same as before, more worried.

“Draco, the cauldron.”

It hadn’t spilled, thank fuck. But the liquid was darker than it was meant to be, near-black. Too far reduced.

“Forget it,” he said with a growl, his lips still glistened from her.

“It’ll burn a hole in it — ”

“I’ll buy a new one.”

Hermione grabbed his wrist and he withdrew. She kissed him, gentle and soft, and slid off the counter.

And Draco watched as she rushed over to rescue the potion. His hand tingled from the pressure, from how he’d worked her. He tasted her, on his lips, in the air. But he let her go, even though she’d not come, even though that was all he wanted from her. But that black tar bubbled in his chest as he realized this just made things worse. This having her halfway, this almost accomplishment. He’d not done well enough if she gave a fuck about some potion they could have bought.

But he remained silent, silver eyes cut through the dark.

“You should shower,” Hermione said in a panicked voice.

Draco looked at her, lost.

“That was really good, you were really good, it’s — just, shower, I’ll…” Hermione turned back as the potion released a liquefied death rattle.

Draco went for the showers. He couldn’t even relish in what had just happened, as if he’d imagined it as if it’d been the wrong thing to do. His erection died in the cold water because he can’t feel anything except numb. He replayed it, over and over, and he’d done everything right, hadn’t he?

By the time he’d finished his shower, all the potions ingredients were packed up and gone. There was no trace of Hermione in there as if she’d made a run for it.

He walked over to his bed in a towel, his brow set.

Hermione was on his bed, a squeamish look on her face.

Draco didn’t look at her, not beyond that regret in her eyes. He wished she’d go away, it’d make this all easier.

“My parents bought me that cauldron.”

Draco stilled.

“There’s an inscription on it. We all signed it. It… I don’t know if it burned through if that’d disappear. I don’t have much left from them. They… I got it First year, with them.”

Draco looked at her as if he were waiting for something to follow.

“I’m sorry for rushing you, I was scared I’d lose it.”

“Another time,” he said with his best impression of unaffected.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Hermione reached out for him, to pull him close. “But none of that while Potions are brewing in future please.”

Draco smirked into a kiss, his chest no less black for her warmth.

“I love you,” she said with a light in her voice.

“I love you too,” he said, even if it felt mechanical to say. He meant it, he’d always mean it. But he didn’t think he deserved it. “It’s late.”

Hermione looked at him, then to the bed. She slid off the bed, her hands worried. But she pecked him on the cheek and pivoted away, her head dipped down.

Draco caught her waist with his arms, to press a kiss to her neck.

It took fifteen minutes or so, but they wound up in Draco’s bed curled around one another. Draco cuddled her close to his chest and used her to cover the cracks that’d formed. He pushed in closer to her and teased at her stomach, lower, and she didn’t say a word. He didn’t press further, didn’t want to ruin this.

And yet he went to sleep with her on his tongue and mind in equal measure, that angelic sprawl of brown hair in green light.

Even if it morphed into nightmares, her sprawled, dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're a good pairing bc they both ruin their own fun. :')
> 
> Also the incantation Ginny tells Hermione/the contraceptive potion is a nod to Find A Way To Live On. The incantation is "Fetus Deletus" which is a fandom meme that makes me cackle.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There won't be any plot," I said, like a liar.

**Friday — 12th February, 1999.**

Everything had to end eventually.

The warmth.

Comfort.

Draco dragged his hands across his neck, his head dipped down and his eyes clenched shut. He took his precious time in the silence and the dark. He burned the image of Hermione into his mind, how she laid across her bed with her legs kicked up behind her. She was on her stomach, something she didn’t often do. She was always so proper about posture, about a good reading posture, all that trollop, but she was lazing right now.

It made sense. It was late on a Friday evening.

They were meant to go to Hogsmeade this weekend.

Valentine's Day, you know. It was a very important date for a new couple and he’d talked a big game. He always did that. He was so stupid about it, how he’d speak like he were the best at any given subject. As if he were the Casanova of the school, which he was in part; but Draco was the end of Casanova’s tale, the part where he died alone out of spite. Alone, desperate to recount his life as if it’d bring some higher meaning to it.

He snatched up the letter from his mother about a family affair that weekend, a meeting of the old blood to discuss the future. The one she’d neglected to mention until now.

And Hermione had invited him to be her Valentine’s Date that same weekend.

(She insisted. It had been quite adorable.)

Draco peeked up at her, at that soft profile as she gnawed at the ends of her hair. She didn’t do that much either, it was a habit she’d broken as a young girl but leaned back into with exam stress. She told him about it once, she told him too much about herself. She trusted him. Somehow.

He worried his hands against the back of his neck, over and over, as if he might find the courage that Gryffindor touted like a badge. But he can’t. He had all week to tell her, to confess, but he — he’s not as brave as her. Not in the way he needed to be. He hated to disappoint those that he loved.

His mother… Her.

A short yet conflicting list, one that burned his throat as he watched her.

And she looked up, a pretty smile wrapped around a thread of spit-slick hair. She swatted it away as if it might hide the habit but she’d been caught.

“Hermione,” he said with a low croak in his voice.

Hermione had a shadow to her gaze. He wished he could chase that dark edge, to find himself in her grasp like he were the prey. He rushed his hands through his hair, over and over, as if he might shake a solution out of himself. And, with one final exhale, he stood upright.

“I have to go home,” he said in a slow voice. “Tonight, for the weekend. I’ll be back Monday.”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened as she sought out the lie but she would never get more than he was willing to offer. He’d had several years to practice and perfect Occlumency and Legilimency, and while he couldn’t finesse his way through trained folks, he could withstand her scrutinizing gaze. If he wanted to, he could take her on a guided tour through his memories.

But he could think of no greater punishment for either of them.

“That’s rather sudden. Is everything alright?” Hermione’s thick lashes obscured her eyes, brown against brown.

“It’s a family matter,” he said, unblinking.

“When did you find this out?”

“Before dinner.” Another lie. Because why not add a lie on top of another lie.

Hermione’s gaze dropped to the bedspread, her hands worried together, one over the other. He stared at her hands, at how bare they were save for the single gold band she wore from her parents. At least it wasn’t the gold band from Weasley, the one he’d lobbed at her like a git with a half-baked proposal. He’d rather prefer to see silver on his fingers but — 

But they’d been dating for a month if that.

Jewelry could wait.

He’d be back.

Draco fought down the urge to be ill. One could buy rings for their partner without marriage in mind.

“If you have to go, then I can’t stop you. But we can do Valentine’s next weekend then,” Hermione said with a nod. “We have to.”

“Of course,” Draco swooped over to sit beside her, the weight off his chest for now. She trusted him for whatever stupid reason… And he’d betrayed that trust. And she’d let him. His stomach roped around itself like it were about to form a knot but she reached out for his hand.

“When do you have to go?”

“Soon,” he said with a wince. He’d packed enough for the weekend but all he needed was his wand and…

Well, that was all he had. He prayed it’d be enough.

Hermione peppered gentle kisses against his knuckles. He had all manner of scars across them, from when he’d punched the stone walls in the dungeon out of anger or jealousy or some other stupid thing. Or from when he’d punched a wardrobe in his dorm. As if a broken hand would be an excuse to spare children from a Cruciatus curse. But the Carrows performed the spell in his place, and so it was twice as awful. He didn’t avoid the task after that; he cast the Cruciatus and did his best to walk that fine line, as if he could make it hurt just a little less, but still so eager to please, happy to help.

What was a little more numbness on the inside for — 

For what?

“Draco?”

Draco blinked several times before he refocused, the taste of acid against the back of his throat. He smiled a weak smile to her and prayed he’d not missed anything.

“I’ll miss you,” she said against his hand, which shook in her grasp. He gripped her hand tighter to disguise the shake.

“I imagine you will,” Draco exhaled, a sharpness to his tone. “But at least you can work on your essay writing. You get bogged down in every little detail, and you waffle.”

Hermione nipped his knuckle between kisses.

“I’d invite you along but — ”

“No, no, I couldn’t, not right now, not before exams,” Hermione rattled, her throat tight. “I already pushed back my Arithmancy essay revision to Sunday night, and I have to focus on my Ancient Runes essay as that’s due Monday, and — ”

“But that,” he said with a snort. He reached across to grab the plush of her cheeks, to yank her into a kiss. And she moved with him, far more eager for all the intimacy they’d bred. If Hermione were broken when they’d begun dating, she was whole again now. Not that people could be broken, nor could they be fixed. But she didn’t pause or apologize half as much as she had before. And she didn’t wait for permission over every touch. She had his permission, he’d given it dozens of times, over and over.

He trusted her, and he’d tell her if she’d misstep. He expected the same in kind.

Which…

Her hand crept along his thigh with confidence she’d have blushed at a month ago. While they hadn’t done much more, he had sneaked a hand between her thighs and toyed with her, just enough, just until she’d push his hand away. She had a limit, whether it was self-imposed or unconscious, he couldn’t say. But she repeated that she enjoyed it and that she’d just hit a point and it’d be enough and — 

“Hermione,” he said in a growl, his teeth bared around his words.

Hermione shot him an innocent pout which he’d have believed a month ago.

But not now, not as she played with his belt.

“Are you quite right?” Draco asked in an even voice, unsure if she had meant to be so brash. 

“I believe so,” Hermione looked down at his lap, to where he was hard against her hand. She’d acted as if she could force confidence… And the one time it worked, he had to leave. And he’d just lied to her. But the hot rot of shame and temptation became indistinguishable as she sat back. He was seated on her bed, after all, he’d invited himself into her space…

Which he’d never done before.

He always carried her to his bed or to his desk. Because she was his, and that made sense.

It couldn’t be so simple.

Hermione adjusted onto her knees, a detached, coy look on her face. Her bravery built with each clash, though she’d never tried to open his belt unprovoked before. The blush on her cheeks and her hooded eyes were a further problem. Because he didn’t have time, not really — because if she started something, he’d not leave. He’d stay, and he couldn’t.

“I have to go,” Draco repeated, his hands at her wrists.

“We could… Just quickly.”

Draco shook his head, a curt smile on his lips. “I’d rather not.”

Hermione dropped her gaze to the bed as if he’d swatted her nose.

“I just meant, not now,” he said with a rough draw of his fingers through his hair. He did his belt back up and moved away from her. He’d take his briefcase with his homework, his toiletries, but he didn’t need clothes. He had plenty at home, though all the Quidditch would necessitate some alterations. He hadn’t bulked up by any means, but he’d been a rake when he’d returned to Hogwarts.

Draco shot a look over his shoulder at Hermione who hadn’t looked up from the bed.

“I — of course, I want to,” Draco wheezed as he might scream otherwise. “But with how new you are to things, quickly might — ”

“I get it,” Hermione snapped her gaze up, a sharp smile on her lips. “It’s okay, I promise.”

Draco’s throat strained as he looked at her, her expression unreadable. He could skim her thoughts if he wanted to, but he — he didn’t want to, he decided.

He leaned towards her, to kiss her such force that he might’ve bruised her bottom lip. She moaned into it and he almost crumbled, to do whatever she wanted, quickly, but it’d be a risk. She’d have an awful time or he’d push her too far, and he didn’t want to spend a weekend away from her after that. He would take her, body and soul, and she’d have nothing left but the aches he’d leave her with. He couldn’t imagine a worse way for them to —

To do that.

“Next weekend,” he said as he drew back, to kiss her forehead and then her cheek.

“It’s a little unfortunate,” Hermione sucked in a stilted breath. “I was planning for… This weekend.”

“A kiss for Christmas, sex for Valentine’s Day — you can’t keep putting our firsts onto holidays or we’ll be married by Halloween,” he said with a snort.

The air froze around them.

“First kiss, first — nevermind,” he said with a scoff. “I love you.”

Hermione gave a tight-lipped smile and he almost broke.

But…

By the time he hit the Great Hall, he’d read through the letter four times over.

_Dear Draco,_

_I hope you are well._

_The old guard have called to action an assessment of the future of pure-blooded families in Great Britain in the wake of altered sensibilities and circumstances. We are expected to host a dinner this Saturday evening to discuss the future of our family along with the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight._

_Please do not bring Hermione._

_Much love,_  
_Your mother, Narcissa Malfoy_

Draco folded the letter in small, sharp shapes and then tossed it into his pocket. He tromped through the thin snow on the grounds, his collar turned up against the cold air. The meeting came as no surprise, though the delay of it threw him off. His father had mentioned a similar affair after the last war, where the surviving families checked in to ensure they were a solid unit. Each would confirm with the other and they’d work together to overcome the downward spiral of their public image.

There was little else that the Sacred Twenty-Eight valued aside from their wealth and pedigree. Not all of the families joined them of course, the Weasleys had been axed long ago, as had the Blacks. Their numbers dwindled with each generation and the anticipated ‘class solidarity’ bred unfortunate family trees. There were no strict protocol, not requirements to intermarry between the families, but it was like a game of chess with half the pieces missing. 

Not to mention that a giant slammed the game every few minutes and they’d rush to reset the pieces.

By the time Draco arrived at his house in Hogsmeade, all his edges were pink. A pink nose, pink ears, pink cheekbones. And it was her stupid fault, the tease. It did nothing for the raw warmth that clung in his pelvis from Hermione, the fucking audacity of the girl.

Once the air released around him as if a vacuum lifted, he bunched his hands against his eyes.

The manor was dark, given it was late. He’d arrived in the room where he’d destroyed the clock.

And yet —

Tick, tock.

Draco glared in the direction of the sound, at the methodical beat of an enchanted heart.

That fucking clock.

He’d smashed it a few times, he’d watched it bleed out, he’d banished it — and it always returned. Not immediately, not all at once, but it was an awful, cursed thing. He scowled at it through the dark at the blood red face of it, black hands suspended in red. It beat as if it were inside his head, the endless parade of time, the seconds he lost to indecision, to fear.

Tick, tock.

Draco slashed his robe behind himself as he turned, which leveled an Elf. He heard Hermione in the back of his mind, but she already had her talons embedded in his cock, he didn’t need her to nag at his mind at the same time. He was in his room in minutes, the empty silence of his house not so unfamiliar.

His mother usually greeted him at least.

Not even his father.

No one but a lone Elf whom he pointedly ignored.

Draco slumped onto his bed. The wards in the house didn’t feel like they’d been affected, neither lifted nor broken. They remained like a warm blanket around him, a sense of serenity that he felt but didn’t enjoy. He’d never realized how heavy wards weighed until they’d been re-established after the war.

The war.

Always about that fucking miserable war.

No.

Fuck the war.

Draco thought about his essays that were due. He thought about Hermione sprawled across her bed in her robes, her hair poked between her lips, how her tongue worked at the stands. He thought about how soft and eager she was and how he had a whole week to get himself prepped for it — because it isn’t his first time, he’s had sex before. Loads of it. So much of it. Plenty. Oh, the — the amount of sex was…

Fuck.

What if he was a miserable shag.

Oh fuck.

Draco laid in the dark of his room, the warmth of the wards no help for the weight on his chest. It was as if Hagrid had sat down on him and asked for a bedtime story.

He’d have to ask Pansy. No, fuck, no, he wouldn’t ask Pansy how she’d thought he was in bed. That’d been years ago. And he refused to ask Astoria because he didn’t even remember her. He pressed his hands to his face, to force himself back through the (not brief, shut up) catalog of sexual experiences he’d had. But aside from Pansy and Astoria — and maybe that Hufflepuff girl Bethany? — he’d never really…

He had time. They could have had sex. He hadn’t had a deadline, he could have turned up the next morning, or the afternoon before the dinner. But he’d panicked and run from her because he was happy. He was happy with her and he wanted to stay happy with her. But he’d run. He picked at his lip with his teeth until he tasted blood, his fingers dipped against his lip, a perversion of her gentle warmth and pressure. His nails dug into his lip until he had to smear his hand against his lips, blood across the back of his hand, his cheek.

He wasn’t any happier by default. He didn’t prance and dance and live. He survived day to day, his eyes as wide as ever and his shoulders tense. While he’d gained what weight he’d lost last year back, he felt like a corpse in motion. He’d seen enough of them, danced around the courtyard naked for the snakes to suckle upon. His foot jigged beneath the blanket as he tried to suck the blood away but it wouldn’t stop.

He smeared his hand against his mouth, the heat of a simple healing charm across his lips. And they healed a bright white warmth through his face.

The taste of copper remained that metallic tang that reminded him of a broken nose or a slashed chest. His hand defaulted there, blood still on his fingers, red against black silk pajamas. Misery swelled beneath his fingers as he realized he’d let Hermione down, he’d hurt her feelings, he’d sunk the first nail into their proverbial coffin. The joke about marriage, the canceled Valentine’s Day plans… Good. That was probably for the best.

What little excitement he’d carried in his chest from Hogwarts died in the dark, but he shouldn’t be surprised.

If anything he was relieved.

He was at least used to this loneliness.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Saturday — 13th February, 1999.**

“Dear,” Narcissa exhaled, her bottom lip pouted outward. “I laid out your outfit.”

“I saw it,” Draco picked at his sleeve. “And I didn’t care for it.”

“How you insult me, child.” She waved a curled hand towards Draco, her pout more pronounced.

“If I wanted to insult you, I’d insult you.”

Narcissa swished away towards the Elves. But as she waved her hand, she batted a gentle stinging hex at his nose. She hadn’t done it in so long — it was something she’d done when he was a boy, when he misbehaved. It wouldn’t leave a mark, no more than the gentle red blush that he could see in his peripherals.

He looked down at his father’s robes as he was almost nineteen. He was young for his year, and in spite of how much he’d grown… The war stole much of his height and breadth, not that either of his parents were burly. But he hadn’t looked at himself much in the mirror, not until he’d been in the robes his mother laid out for him. They were too small as if she thought he was still the same sickly seventeen-year-old.

He had no patience for the Elves and their tailoring magic. They’d strangled his balls on one unfortunate occasion and he’d never trusted them since. He just wanted this abysmal dinner over with so that he might return to school and see himself to a career, all that wank.

But he stood as expected by his father, by the door with all the approachability of an open casket coffin.

No guests had arrived yet, but there were to be more than fifty people in attendance.

“Tonight will be an enlightening opportunity for you Draco,” Lucius said with a smile.

“That’s what you said last time and all I got was a tattoo — ” Draco mumbled under his breath, though Lucius caught it. He snapped a hand over the back of Draco’s head, which he bore with a gritted sneer.

They didn’t speak of the Dark Lord, or Death Eaters, or any of that. His father had pleaded ignorance and people agreed. He must be stupid to side twice with the Dark Lord…

As if the Dark Lord hadn’t been thwarted twice by the generosity of a mother.

Draco watched Narcissa fuss with the House Elves, each of whom had a pair of translucent pink wings and a crystalline bow.

They were dressed as little Cupids.

“Please don’t tell me — ”

“Love is in the air, son.” Lucius shot a firm smile at Draco before he turned towards the garden.

Draco stared, first at the warmth outside that formed in a loose semicircle. He squinted into the dark to see dozens of drugged up pixies who were enchanted to glitter, along with fae fire and fireflies. He tongued the inside of his cheek before he went after his mother, who avoided him with deft maneuvers through marble columns. She fussed over an Elf as if that were her main priority.

“Mother.”

Narcissa slowed like she were a glacier, gradual and elegant as ever. She swirled back to her son, the faint pink blush of her dress matched to the accents of his father’s robes.

“You neglected to mention this would be a Valentine’s themed event.”

“Draco,” Narcissa said with a dip of her chin and an exaggerated pout. She reached out for his hands, her forehead almost level with his haughty chin. “Given the date, I had thought you’d realize.”

“I hadn’t equated a discussion of our political and social future — ” The words fell from his lips and fell into place. “Fuck.”

“Draco!”

Draco’s gaze bounced between her eyes as if one might be more truthful. But his mother was the most proficient Occlumency user he’d ever met, as she was the very same woman who withstood the Dark Lord with no visible effort. And she’d tricked Draco as if he were an idiot, which he must be.

“It’s just an appearance,” Narcissa waved their hands, as they remained interlocked. She swung them side to side and knocked their thumbs together in the middle. “Just play nice with the girls, the ah… The ones — oh, the one with the blonde hair and the big teeth, she kept talking to you. Just stand with her.”

Draco gawked at her.

“I do rather like Hermione for the sake of our image. But the other families… Well, they don’t like that we’ve already taken steps to remedy our public image with Hermione, you can imagine. As if it’s exploitative to have you fall in love with someone,” Narcissa gave a haughty sniff.

“Love?”

“You know what I mean,” Narcissa brushed her thumbs over the backs of his hands. “If I invited her here, they’d have their hands all over her, trying to pose for pictures, she’d be smothered. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No,” Draco snatched his hands away, a bright heat beneath his collar. He tugged at it, his brow set as he watched his mother. “But you made this sound important. Except that it’s just another awful dinner to maintain the opinions of a few washed-up families.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything that you don’t want to do,” Narcissa’s lazy smile didn’t vanish, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Well I don’t want to be here.”

“Draco,” Narcissa laughed like a song, her smile tight. “These social ties, while not immediately important, remain central to your future. These people helped us step away from the accusations.”

“As did Hermione and Harry — ”

“Well these people have their hands wrapped around important wrists — who directs the spell, the hand or the wrist?”

Draco watched her crack. She learned how to laugh again and to move, but stress brought out that shake in her hands. But she was such a skilled liar. Was any of her weakness was real to begin with?

“It’ll be you listening and smiling, mainly. You know how people are, so eager to talk about themselves,” she gestured towards the narrow French doors which were sprawled open to the garden.

Draco stepped onto the marble patio, his gaze not fixed on one spot for long. People were gathered in small batches, two or three to a group. His father had settled with Mr. Nott and Mr. Parkinson, to which he grimaced. He didn’t let his gaze linger for any longer than that as he searched out those familiar to him. It was difficult as he did see pure-blooded folks at formal affairs. He knew most of them by face but he didn’t care to recall names.

Macmillan was out of place alongside the Fawley elders. He didn’t see any of their spawn, thank Merlin. Emily hadn’t elected to return to Hogwarts for her Eighth year which left her well away from him. She was much like Pansy with half the charm, and while he didn’t mind her company, she’d turned crazed in Fourth year. As if the sight of him in dress robes was enough to send her after him. He shuddered as he clocked the Greengrass family, the Rosiers, the strange brothers who stood as the remaining Carrows…

Once he’d secured the people in attendance, he eased. Because while there were a few unknown elements (such as the extended family of the Carrows) he’d met everyone else.

And none of them were of interest to him.

And he wouldn’t schmooze.

Draco focused on the heart-shaped shrubs and the white wooden tabled laid out. There was a rustic air to everything with tulle and suspended fae sprites on every surface and too many curtains. It was too much for him, but Valentine’s Day had always been too much. The whole place was more like a dome than a tent as if they were eager to keep all the magic inside. He wondered what Hermione would think about it, if she were here.

He should have brought her. He shouldn’t have lied about this. He should, he shouldn’t, the phrase bounced between his ears like a Bludger as he scowled at the party.

“Draco?”

Draco turned on a hinge, his head bent low and his brow heavy set over his eyes.

“How’ve you been?”

Some blonde, not related to him — he skimmed the crowd though he hadn’t the time to piece together who exactly she was. “Fine.”

“That’s good.”

Draco remained against the marble pillar by the door, as if he might be able to sneak away if left alone long enough.

“I heard you got onto the Quidditch team, for Hogwarts.”

Draco smiled a weak smile.

“I played at Beauxbatons as a Seeker, ah, but we did not have houses as you do.”

“No.”

“No, we made our own teams of whomever we so choose.”

“Mm.”

The girl trailed off, her nose scrunched as she looked him over. “I’m Ayla — ah, Macmillan,” she said in such a way that her French accent peeked through her voice. “I am visiting England again, which has been nice. I have been helping my family with their artifacts business,” she scrunched her face again, her long champagne hair twisted up into an ornate style. She turned enough to reveal it had hearts pleated with her hair and the pretty slope of her neck.

Not that she was pretty, but it was a nice break from the ex-Death Eaters.

“I am sorry, I thought you remembered me from Christmas.”

Draco shrugged again as he downed a glass of wine. He wouldn’t drink more than that, but he was anxious and it’d help. Just a little, just one.

“I was excited for you to bring your friend, ah, Hermione, was it? I remember her from the tournament at your school… She was quite pretty,” she pointed at Draco in such a dismissive way that he relaxed. She had a youthful look to her, he’d assumed there was an angle. But he doubted she’d be so chatty and candid if she were working an angle — his defenses slammed back into place so hard they rattled the wine in his stomach.

Ayla loved the sound of her own voice which was fine. The other handful of girls were too intimidated to approach them as she laughed and gestured, as if she cared as if he were paying attention.

He didn’t have to stay for long — 

The evening was dismal to say the least. Ayla floated back and forth between Draco and others as if they were friends. But she didn’t flirt in any overt way and she didn’t touch him. She could have been as forced into this pleasantry as he was, this attempt at old society in a broken world. These sorts of dinners used to have hundreds of people. Now they were lucky to have fifty, and everyone was related to someone if you went back a few generations.

Whatever the love hearts and flowers were meant to do had failed.

But Draco watched his father as he bounced between Ministry officials, the men who bulked out the empty ranks where the dead once stood. The conversations remained personal like a catch up from what surface thoughts the drunks bounced as they passed by. Several babbled about their latest shift at Azkaban and one older man laughed and pointed to a woman — about how he’d seen her husband more than she had. But she smiled and laughed it off, her grip a little tighter on her glass.

He glared at his father more than once but he wasn’t about to hand out his private information as liberally as the drunks. The night was a hedonistic nightmare where half the under-age kids had run off with a bottle of fire whiskey to play Truth or Dare. The pixie dust and whatever fae junk they’d spread in the air stuck to the inside of his mouth like powder, but it didn’t taste or smell of anything in particular. He presumed it was an effect though the taste of moonstone lingered.

Draco was left with Ayla who scoffed at it, given she was several years older than Draco. She had much the same distance to her as the rest of the party. If she’d been brought over from France to help the Macmillan family, as a family of pure-blooded magical users… He didn’t care to ask what benefit she provided, aside from a pretty face to glean information through. And so he let her speak and kept quiet, as he had through most of his interactions with Crabbe and Goyle.

She’d say something through a mouthful of horderves and he’d pretend to understand. She pointed to people and gave him a short biography about them, their origin, it was much the same. They came from money or they came from a title forever ago. The Carrow brother had left when the cameras began to flash but so had several other older guests. But there was nothing out of the ordinary except for the House Elves dressed like a caricature of Cupid.

One pointed the bow to Draco but he waved a hand and it slammed into their face. He felt the regret as Hermione’s grip tightened back onto his mind, then onto his stomach and…

In truth, most of the night left him fixated on what he’d turned down. He could have had sex with Hermione. She’d offered in no unclear terms.

(Even if he still wasn’t sure about doing it quickly, whether that’d be a necessity or a choice.)

They ate and drank and danced, though Draco did the minimum of each. He acted as if he were expected to pay out the nose for any small luxury, like his indulgence in it were a crime. And given the fact he’d lied to be here in the first place, that wasn’t such a lie. He raked his fingers through his hair, more and more until the thin lines of his fingers remained.

By eleven o’clock, Draco was eager to go to bed. He might even be able to sneak out in the morning. He’d confess to Hermione that he’d been brought there under false pretenses, that he’d not known it was merely a dinner. Worse than that, he had caught the bright flash of a few cameras and he’d not yet placed who the cameras belonged to. His mother waved him off to say it was for publicity, but that didn’t help. Even if their story appeared in the back of the social section, as he expected, Hermione would see it.

She took in anything and spun it into a larger theory.

“Ah, about… About Hermione,” Ayla said in a soft voice, her hand against Draco’s bicep.

“We’re dating if you must know.”

“Oh,” Ayla said with a wilted posture. “I had wanted to ask you if you could put me in contact with her but — of course, if you are seeing her, that wouldn’t do.”

“Wait, she’s the one you liked?”

“Of course she is,” Ayla stared at him, her brow pinched. “We had several enlightening conversations about the rights of merfolk with regards to ownership of underwater sanctuaries — ”

“Right,” Draco snorted. “Yeah, well, back off Macmillan.”

Ayla smirked. “Do not let her stray too far or I’ll finish what Krum started.”

Draco’s hand twitched though his smile remained. “Touch her and I’ll kill you,” he said though he managed to laugh through it.

Though the party continued upstairs, the dust and the wine left him dizzy and distant. He left the party with a horrible weight in his chest. It had been a waste of his time, a waste in every sense of the word. His parents let him leave, as he’d shown up for the pictures and that was all they’d wanted from him. As if they wanted to make sure that he was visible to the public, that he was out and about.

And Draco slept, his stomach in permanent knots. He had been yanked away from his Valentine’s Day plans for nothing. Not a damn thing. He hadn’t been brought in for any of the conversations, he wasn’t relevant. It was just a show, to have Draco as some eligible, agreeable member of society. But they didn’t want Hermione there because… Because she’d draw too much attention? He laid flat on his back, his brow furrowed as he picked shapes in the dark.

By the time sleep took him, he’d forged a path to an apology mixed with the truth, as he had nothing to hide.

He never should have lied to her, period.

◇─◇──◇────◇────◇────◇────◇────◇─────◇──◇─◇

**Sunday — 14th February, 1999.**

Draco was up before sunrise because he’d not even really slept to begin with. And he’d not slept well the night before either, so everything felt far away.

He had a headache that ran from the nape of his neck to his nose and he wanted to be comfortable and to sleep. But he couldn’t. He felt awful on repeat, terrified that he’d get back to Hogwarts to see Hermione with an early edition of the Prophet with Ayla draped over him, and it’d look awful but she’d never believed the truth, not even a little.

“Tripley,” Draco said into the open air.

A pop sounded as Tripley landed, a pillow cuddled to her face. She blinked so hard he saw her head move before she vanished and reappeared, dressed and alert.

“I’m going back to school early,” Draco said in a set tone.

“But — But you — ”

“Tell my parents not to waste my time with this sort of thing in future,” Draco snapped his briefcase shut, his toiletries tucked away inside it. He was in his best suit because he’d surprise her. He’d tell her he cut his visit short, that there was no family emergency except that his parents needed to sort out their priorities.

Tripley stared at Draco, her hands shook in a pattern with her knees, back and forth.

“Can you tell them that?”

“Are you… Are you sure you don’t want to eat first?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at Tripley. “Out with it.”

“Out with — what does sir mean?”

Draco rolled his eyes to the ceiling, his lips formed into a tight line. He’d not slept and he was tired to begin with. Tired of life, tired of the lies, and he’d added to it and it was a vicious circle.

“I just think… There’s no rush.”

“Tripley,” he put out his hand to hold hers, which she accepted before she met his eye. It was the lone benefit of a matched brow and gaze to his father’s as if his cruelty came by design. “I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t sir.”

“So something is going on,” Draco said with a sneer. 

Tripley yanked her hands back and he watched as she cracked her finger out of place. He didn’t flinch though he wasn’t happy to see it. Her blood ran thick to the floor as she clamped her mouth shut.

“Is something going on here?” Draco asked, his tone stern.

Tripley shook her head and snapped another finger.

“Stop breaking your fingers, Tripley. Mother will be disappointed in you.”

Tripley froze like she’d hit capacity, her fingers at strange angles. It took two flicks of his wand and a cleanup charm to see them back into place. If his father had seen that, he’d refuse to have her treat them. Several Elves in their home had crooked fingers like tangled tree roots, but they worked the gardens so their abnormalities didn’t scare the visitors. But Tripley remained limp on the floor like a sack of potatoes, her big green head flopped and her ears over her wide eyes.

She began to fidget with her earrings, which Lucius gave the Elves as a status symbol. But if they lied or misbehaved, they’d lose the earrings. They’d be yanked out or burned off, but Draco didn’t have the patience to reassure her. She knew he’d never confessed her sins to his father, not when it benefited him. But he’d been a prick as a child… He just hoped that how he’d healed her now bred some level of trust.

He’d never hurt them intentionally. But he’d never helped them either.

“I… I’s not sure…” Tripley tugged at her earrings.

“Stop hurting yourself, at all,” Draco said, his voice level. “And do what I ask of you.”

Tripley dropped her hands to her lap like she’d been freed of a set of manacles. She massaged her hands and her wrists.

“What do you think is going on?”

“Master just…” Tripley swallowed hard. “Master had a package for you before you went.”

“Well, he should have given it to me last night if it was so important.”

“No,” Tripley shook her head. “The Mistress said no. But he said — ”

“Get him, Tripley.”

And she vanished with a pop. Draco lingered by his bedpost, his arms crossed and his expression shadowed. It had to be something stupid if his mother had said for him not to do it. So he was prepared for some grand, awful scheme that he’d have to endure, to say no to and to withdraw from. His head rolled back against the post, his throat sharp in the morning light. His eyes were closed but he heard the gentlest whisper against the carpet.

His father, dressed for the day, as if he’d been waiting for Draco.

“Are you so sick of us already?” Lucius asked in a low voice.

Draco wanted to agree, to tell his father outright that he’d had a miserable night and that his head ached like he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. Instead, he stared his father down, his brows flexed upward as an invitation.

“I remember when you respected me,” Lucius said in a soft voice, one that made Draco’s heart calcify.

“Yes, when you were respectable.”

Lucius smiled the same disingenuous smile that Draco often wore. It was an awful mirror to stand in front of, to see where his mannerisms and his eyes matched up. He’d even been able to wear his father’s robes the night before, his prodigal son, his sole heir. The silence sat between them as Lucius swirled his hand. A set of dark black robes appeared out of thin air, which he offered forward with no explanation.

He didn’t need to offer one.

That glint of silver with familiar black lines etched into the surface. The silver formed like the rings on a tree, the number of years that a family had been magical, the number of members… And deeper, darker rings for each dead family member, as if it were a badge of honor and of shame. It was a mask, though it wasn’t his mask. His had been pristine and sleek, with even lines and only three sets of etched lines.

Even three was too many rings. He didn’t want to think of those who had five or six associated members.

“What is this.”

“A step forward, towards our political and social future,” Lucius smiled, his tongue dipped between his lips. His smile turned acidic as he wiggled the robes closer to Draco, who refused to touch them.

“A step forward?” Draco echoed, his voice like a croak.

“We owe a favor to some ah, old friends,” Lucius smiled at Draco as if he’d just announced they were going to Diagon Alley for lunch. “We’re needed. Not today, but sometime soon.”

Draco’s headache worsened as if he’d slammed his head against the wall. His teeth gritted against his anger, that black pit in his chest warped into loathing. It was something, something instead of feeling numb. Something lethal.

“We aren’t going out to hurt anyone if you’re going to be so precious,” Lucius said with a frown. “We’re just acting as a diversion for a break-out for Azkaban — ”

“Last night,” Draco said, his voice flat. “Mother said it was because we owed a favor to the people who kept us out of Azkaban.”

“Oh yes,” Lucius rolled his eyes. “Petty stuff, they have a whole plan to break in, to do all the hard work… All we have to do is go to Hogsmeade and cause havoc for ten minutes tops, just enough to get the Aurors on the wrong track. It won’t be for a while, a few months. We need time to prepare.”

“That’s insane,” Draco snapped between his teeth. “Are you listening to yourself?”

“It’s ten minutes in a mask, Draco,” Lucius said with a wave of his arm. “I’ve endured years of it with far bloodier hands.”

“I burned my robes, as you should have.” 

“Oh well, these are… Who did these belong to? Oh, they were meant for Crabbe’s boy before he died,” Lucius said with a thin laugh.

Draco’s gaze bounced around the room as he searched for an answer to this problem. He didn’t have a choice, not really. This wasn’t an option, this was an instruction. He thought back to the night before, to the drunk Azkaban upper guards and the faint hint of moonstone…

“Veritaserum was being spread around by those pixies, wasn’t it... But extra moonstone powder, so if people need to, they could resist it — ”

Lucius rolled his eyes as if it were obvious. “Yes, yes, thank you.” He closed the gap to shove the robes into Draco’s arms, his brow set. The cruel reflection did nothing for the blackness deep in his ribs, that ache of what he wanted. That heavy reality, of what he was.

“Fine,” Draco said, his voice thin. “Just, tell me when.”

“Good boy,” Lucius said with a smirk. He tapped Draco on the cheek with his index finger, which was the closest his father ever got to something like a hug. He looked Draco over once, weight to his gaze as he stepped back. And then he disappeared as if this weren’t some awful dip back into the war.

Draco adjusted the robes, to look at the mask. 

He could see himself in it, the rough shape of his pale face reflected in the silver. The black lines ran across the cheeks and brows. Each held a meaning though he’d never cared to learn about it in detail. But the Dark Lord never did things by halves. His lineage, encapsulated in runes and lines. His past cast into a gaunt expression. He shifted the robes enough to touch the silver, to which it misted through the air towards him. 

As if it were a leech, desperate to be upon him again.

He waved it off and it dissipated, though it landed on the hardwood floor with a clatter.

His breathing remained steady despite how he tensed and how fast his heart slammed against his ribs. He stared at it, the upside-down silver with black marks.

…

Draco had to tell Hermione.

There was no way around it. He’d have to confess to her, to tell her that his father —

His chest felt tight again as if he might be ill. He paced in the lounge of their dorm, unable to pass through into their room. It was eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. He had seen her shoes by the door when he’d peeked his head in, as she always left them by the door. So she had to be there.

He paced and paced and finally broke, his chest swelled and his throat tight.

“Hermione.”

And her bed was empty.

Draco threw his briefcase down and fought down his panic. She’d not known he’d be back early. She was probably in the Library or — or the Great Hall for breakfast.

Easy.

Draco changed into his school robes and even pinned his Head Boy pin to his chest. He’d go find Hermione and he’d tell her. He’d tell her about the dinner, about his parents. He’d tell her about how his father had asked him to help with some Azkaban break out, and she’d be able to warn the Order. She’d be able to help him and he could work with the Order. It’d be like it should have been in the past, where he could do something right for once.

He could help. If Snape could play turncoat, he could too.

He teetered on the line between nervous and confident, spurred on by more than two sleepless nights… Perhaps three? Whatever the case, he’d not slept and he might just pass out once he got her alone. They could take a nap after he explained everything and then they could go out for their date, and everything would be perfect.

Draco slipped into the Great Hall to a somber scene.

His stomach flipped.

People looked at him with their full attention, something he’d never hated so much. He usually loved attention, but he felt as if he’d been left out of a joke. He frowned at the Gryffindor table as he didn’t see her, or Ginny or…

Draco tongued his lips apart as he caught a glimpse of the Daily Prophet. He shoved a Ravenclaw boy into a pitcher of orange juice, his hands rough against the paper.

_“Death Descends Upon Hogsmeade!”_

The title sat above a photo of Harry and Ron outside the Three Broomsticks alongside Longbottom, Lovegood, and Ginny. It was a horrible parallel to his Fifth year, where he’d found out his father had been sent to Azkaban by a headline in the Daily Prophet.

“Death Eaters, that’s what I heard,” whispered a Hufflepuff girl a few benches away.

“As if there’s any of them left,” her friend scoffed back.

Draco craned his head towards the Gryffindor table again.

He read the article in dribs and drabs. It wasn’t specific but it listed that a fight had broken out in Hogsmeade, something about casualties, a few bystanders, dark wizards — 

“Draco?”

Draco was in the middle of the Great Hall in tears as he tried to piece together his reality when he heard her. She had her hair in an ugly, awful braid and five books stacked atop one another. She had a few nicks and bruises on her face along with a bandage that peeked out over her collarbone, but otherwise, she looked — she was everything all at once and he pulled her so hard she dropped her books. He kissed her, as the Great Hall had since lost their interest in him.

“Is everything alright?” Hermione had a soft rasp to her voice.

“Of course,” he lied so that he might have a few seconds of peace with her.

At least until they’d collected her books, so as to find somewhere private to speak.

Which they did, in their room, seated on the floor across from one another.

But Draco didn’t know where to begin.


End file.
